Between the Lines of Fear and Blame
by Tazmy
Summary: When the chief's child is murdered, Shawn blames himself.
1. Words Unsaid

**Story Notes:**

There is no "major" character death but there is the death of a character we don't really see much of in the series. I would say the death is very "sensitive" in an emotional sense. This is a very DARK story. I thought I'd give you a heads up though.

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

Lots of thanks required here, so bear with me a moment. Thanks to Koli for the useful and honest beta. Thanks to RP for helping me with motivation, ideas, and helping me make this chapter work. Your encouragement did wonders for me.

Thanks to angw for being my fresh pair of eyes. Thanks to Syd, mia, Sam, CK and everyone else who kept giving me encouragement during this chapter and later ones.

* * *

**Gus**

He wiped away the Psych logo from the main window, feeling as though he was washing his own soul away with the paint. Shawn hadn't taken a case for a while now. Gus had hoped they'd continue, but there were only so many bills he could cover with a single job. It was time to let the office go. The adventure was over.

Climbing down the ladder, he glanced one last time at the Psych office and chuckled silently to himself. The landlord would freak when he noticed the broken down wall and bullet holes. The office had survived their last six years of service about as well as Shawn had.

Gus grabbed the final box and headed to his car. Overcome by nostalgia, he sat at the steering wheel while staring vacantly at the empty office. He remembered everything so fondly, including the times people were shooting, stabbing, or otherwise trying to kill him. It was as the old saying went, "What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger."

Those days were over now, though. Now he could sit at home safe, take the evenings off, and even show up to work on a regular basis. Once upon a time, he would have wanted these things, but not anymore. Now, as he gazed at what once was, he longed for nothing more than a chance to begin again.

**Juliet**

She watched as Karen wandered into the police station with a vacant expression. Karen nodded halfheartedly at the few who would meet her eye, but most were pretending to work. Juliet was no different. She wanted the courage to look up and say whatever it was that could be said, but courage hid under the nearest rock and there were no words to be found.

The station breathed again when Karen locked herself in her office without saying much of anything. There was no way to understand Karen's pain and platitudes were hollow.

"She's not ready." Carlton leaned against the corner of Juliet's desk, ignoring her glare.

"Of course she's not. What do you expect?"

Carlton shrugged, shifting slightly. "I don't know. I don't know about these...things."

"Neither do I."

It seemed so long ago and yet like yesterday when everyone was happy. Then the call came and the sleepless nights began. The Chief begged Shawn to have a vision, demanding that he find her daughter and bring her home safely.

Shawn promised he would, even knowing it was a promise he had little control over.

Juliet blinked the memory away, not wanting to relive the event again, yet somehow she was always drawn back to the pain. Two months seemed hardly enough time to reclaim normal, but she knew that life had to continue. The Chief knew this as well, or she wouldn't be back.

Juliet hardly noticed when Shawn entered the station shortly after the Chief. She flashed to images of him carrying the Chief's child, Iris, in his arm as blood dripped to the pavement below. When the EMTs took her from him, he'd fallen to the ground gasping for breath.

"Hey, Jules, Lassie." His smile was empty. She'd interviewed enough suspects to know the difference, and she knew Shawn too well for him to hide much from her.

She smiled back at him anyway, pretending she didn't notice. If her smile was just as fake as his, then it didn't really matter.

"Spencer," Carlton responded casually. He edged off Juliet's desk and made his way back to his own.

She knew that Carlton blamed himself for not finding Iris on time--for still not uncovering all of the details of the case. Not that Juliet blamed him. She often lay awake at night wondering how she too could miss something so important.

Then there was Shawn. He dropped into the nearest chair, weariness overtaking him as he joined the others in staring at the Chief's door. "How is she?"

Juliet shrugged. "Not good."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"I don't know. Are you ready to work again?" The words escaped before she could stop them, tinged with bitterness she didn't know existed. She missed his visits and flirtations, but when everyone else was banding together to offer the chief comfort and to find the missing pieces, Shawn had disappeared. Now he returned with a fake smile and no explanation. So yeah, she was a bit bitter.

If Shawn detected this, he didn't show it. He tapped gently on her desk, not meeting her eye. "No. We're closing up shop. Permanently." Then, as though the seriousness of the conversation was too much for him to bare, he tilted his head and quipped, "Gus thinks we should join the circus, but I'm hoping to find a more tantalizing career. Something with more flare, you know?"

"You're closing Psych?" she gasped, yet somehow she'd known this was coming. When Shawn lowered Iris's still form to the ground, a part of him had broken. He blamed himself in a way that Juliet couldn't comprehend.

"I should have known," he'd said again and again and while Juliet had thought the same of herself, it was different with Shawn. There was something tangible there, something he definitely understood that he wasn't sharing with the rest of them. Whatever it was, it'd taken the Shawn Spencer she knew and cared for and replaced him with an echo of his former self.

Small talk only lasted so long. There was a long pause in which Shawn grabbed her paperclips and started linking them together. She missed this. She liked Shawn hanging around the station doing something random just because he couldn't stand sitting still. If nothing else, it was a nice break to the monotony.

"You should stop by more," Juliet told him.

Shawn quickly glanced at the Chief's office. "Maybe so," he replied.

"Jules?"

"Yeah?"

For a moment, she could see his guilt beyond the Spencer mask. She knew he wanted to tell her something, as though he were a criminal longing to make a dark confession. If she pushed, he might tell her, but somehow her own words never formed. Something told her it was better if she didn't know—if he didn't speak.

Whatever he might have wished to say, the only words that came out were "I'll be seeing you."

As Shawn exited the station , she glanced back at her partner and noticed that he too was watching Spencer with confusion and concern.

...

**Lassiter**

Vick wasn't ready. He told her this because it was his job to watch out for the department, but also because he cared. The Chief needed to be ready for an emergency, to hold down the fort, and to inspire the masses that worked under him or her. Vick had proven herself again and again, but he could see that her spark was gone.

"This isn't up for debate, Detective."

Perhaps it was the slight crack in her voice that halted his arguments. He nodded, continuing with the updates. Not that there was much to say. Most of the cases were just wrapping up. No great mysteries to unravel, no crazy psychics around to mess up crime scenes, and no anything else that generally annoyed the head detective.

Heck, he'd even had time for a decent night's sleep on a regular basis! Of course, he still carried the black bags under his eyes because having time to sleep and actually resting were two completely different dilemmas.

Vick listened carefully, adding only a question or two. Carlton wondered just how much he'd have to cover for her over the next few months and began mentally rearranging his schedule. He'd handled the interim-Chief job for eight weeks without a problem, the only question was how much he could do while out there working cases.

"Spencer was here," Vick noted, leaning back against her chair and staring at Juliet's desk where Spencer had sat just an hour before.

"Yes. Pleasantly, he hasn't been around much lately. It's been nice. I think he wanted to check up on....things." On you. Though he dared not say the other part aloud.

"I don't see his names on any of the files."

He couldn't read what the chief was thinking. He wanted to, of course, as he watched her as closely as he would a suspect. There was loss in her expression and something else. It was something he couldn't place, but it was definitely directed at Spencer.

"We offered him a few cases. He turned them down. According to Mr. Guster, they're closing Psych."

"I see. Do you think we can change their mind?"

"I doubt it"

Carlton had little reason to want Spencer's return, or maybe he did despite how the thought sickened him. Spencer just had a way of driving him mad at the same time as, unfortunately, proving useful. After six years, it was possible Carlton had grown used to having the so-called psychic around, but it was easier to just ignore that possibility.

"He blames himself."

Vick nodded absently, her finger tracing the outline of a yellow file. To the untrained file, it was no different than any other, but Carlton recognized it immediately. He had a copy of the same file on his desk.

Vick was still trying to understand what had happened, probably desperate to connect the pieces they'd never managed to fit together. It was her daughter, after all, and not just another case.

He'd always wanted kids. He couldn't imagine having one only to lose her at such a young age. How Vick managed—how any grieving parent managed—Carlton didn't know. What he did know was that if he did have a kid, if that kid had been taken from him, he'd do anything to find those responsible and see them pay. Vick was no different. Until she understood every last detail of the case, she would not stop investigating.

Noticing his gaze, Vick grabbed the file, slipping it into the top drawer.

"What about you? Do you blame him?" He was surprised by the sharpness in her tone.

"No." Spencer wasn't the detective. He wasn't the one with a Masters in Criminology. There was plenty of blame to go around.

...  
**Henry**

Eight weeks had passed since the incident, but Henry would never forget that night.

It was 3 am when Shawn wandered into Henry's living room. At first Henry thought his son had been replaced by a zombie, because Shawn never stared so blankly nor remained so motionless. There was blood on his hands and clothes.

"I could have saved her," Shawn told him. "I could have."

Henry already knew who 'her' was. The images were all over the news as a thousand ravenous reporters told of kidnappers and thieves and failed heroic attempts.

"Why do you say that?" Henry asked, knowing that platitudes would get him nowhere. Only the logic of the situation could drive Shawn from his misery.

"I knew the facts. I was on the right track. I...I should have known."

Shawn Spencer wasn't a cop, despite all of the prodding his father had done, but that didn't mean he was free from the dangers that came with the job. There was no training or experience that could prepare a person for the life Shawn had chosen, nor was there a way to go back and fix the biggest mistakes.

"Let's get you washed up."

Henry looked back at that night still searching for the words he couldn't find. He suspected none really existed.

Now, eight weeks later, as he watched his son mix eggs and bacon together, not once taking a bite, Henry realized that he needed to find those words soon.

...

**Shawn**

He wasn't the maudlin type. He liked jokes and adventures and generally not taking life too seriously. There were times, however, when life demanded more than a quick laugh.

His stop at the station the day before had only confirmed his worst fears. Where Chief Vick once sat was now an empty imposter who smiled at the right times but never quite lost the empty countenance. Her hollow gaze bore into his soul, digging until Shawn wasn't sure if anything remained.

"You haven't touched your bacon," Henry chided from across the table.

Peeking through the Spencer mask, Shawn saw his dad's pain. Henry hated showing his real emotions about as much as Shawn did, so Shawn ignored the hurt as though he couldn't see it, hoping maybe his father would believe the lie.

"This sucks," Shawn replied without really answering, tossing his eggs from one side of the plate to the other.

"Yeah, it does, Kid, but listen to me." Henry carefully placed his own fork back on the table and drew in a deep breath. His final demand was in pure Henry-lesson mode, but Shawn had heard it all before.

"How about we just not do this? Gus will be here in five minutes, anyway, so we don't have time--"

"Listen to me."

Thirty years of blowouts told Shawn that there was no arguing with that tone. Crossing his arms protectively around himself, Shawn motioned for his dad to continue.

"I know you don't want to hear that it wasn't your fault. I also know that you wouldn't believe me anyway."

"Okay. Nice talk. Loved it. Purely inspirational."

"Shawn, shut up for a change. Please."

Please? Shawn couldn't remember his dad every asking him to listen, especially not with such a worried, hurt expression. "Go on."

"I know what you're planning."

Shawn scoffed. Of course his dad was expecting him to run. Even Gus had confided he was surprised Shawn was still around after everything that happened. After all, that's what Shawn did when things went bad, right? He ran?

"That's not what I'm saying."

Shawn blinked, not realizing he had said any of that aloud. Somehow he was on his feet, pacing back and forth as a caged animal waiting for his chance to escape. "Sure it is."

"If you were planning to jump on your bike and leave town, you would have already left. I know that and you know that."

His dad was yelling now, though Shawn wasn't quite sure what there was to yell about. It was just their natural instinct when dealing with one another. Yell to hide the pain. Yell to run away.  
Yet somehow, Shawn found the floor tiles fascinating and his father's eyes the plague.

"Look at me, Shawn."

He didn't dare. He'd never consciously made a decision, but maybe subconsciously he had. His dad, ever the vigilant father, had seen right through him before Shawn could even understand himself.

"Look at me," Henry demanded again, this time in a gentler voice.

Slowly, Shawn gazed up at his dad, wishing all the pain and worry would disappear and lead them back to normal again. But normal was gone. Normal never was.

"Don't tell them." Henry never begged. His father, his dad, the perfect cop that everyone respected, he didn't beg. So why was he doing it now and why wouldn't he turn away and hide the horrible drops of pain that wouldn't be discarded?

"I have to," Shawn whispered. His shoulders sagged as he fell back into the chair.

"It's selfish." His dad's voice reached a crescendo before descending into a whisper. "What about Gus? If you do this--"

Shawn realized he was visibly shaking, and willed his hands to be still. Did his dad really believe he hadn't thought this through? That he didn't know what he was doing? It was so like his dad and yet it was so maddening! Was it any wonder Shawn had left before?

"I'll tell them I had you both fooled. They can't prove--"

"That's not what I mean, and you know it." Back to crescendo.

"I'm going to do this, Dad." Defiant, Shawn forced himself to stare back at his father in the epic battle of wills.

A million words passed between them without reaching the audible world. Henry was now the psychic, reading his son's mind with the knowledge that only a parent could have. Somehow Shawn's dad knew not just 'the what' but 'the why', and maybe 'the why' was the most damaging of all.

"I don't need to tell you that this is stupid. I don't need to tell you that you're throwing everything away out of some misplaced sense of blame."

"Then don't." Shawn's legs threatened to buckle beneath him. He wasn't an idiot. He knew his dad cared, but seeing the way his dad laid the cards out in front of him was a kind of torture. He didn't want to be stopped. He didn't want to be talked out of this. He just wanted to be let alone.

He knew his dad could see right through him, and yet Henry answered, "I won't."

Shawn waited for the catch as his dad drew in a deep breath.

"I'm just asking you not to be an idiot. Grab your bike, fill it with gas, leave town and never look back. Go out there and force yourself to find your life again. If that's what you need to do, then do it! But, God, Shawn, don't throw it all away. Once you tell them, once you speak, you will never be able to get back what you'll lose."

Shawn blinked twice, staring at his father as though he were an imposter. For all he knew, maybe that wasn't far from the truth, because there was no way in hell that his dad would make such a suggestion. Shawn tried to respond, but no words formed. It didn't process; it couldn't.

"If you leave, you can always come back."

A knock at the door interrupted any further tension, causing Shawn to jump. Not missing a beat, he raced to the door, stopping an inch away.

"Just think about it, Kid."

Shawn had thought about everything. He'd thought about it each night since he'd discovered his mistake. He'd thought about it each time he saw the Chief's empty desk. He'd thought about it again when the Chief returned an empty shell of her former self. He'd thought about it so much it had made his head explode. There was nothing left to think about.

"Bye, Dad."

TBC

Okay, I'm posting my Psych stories mainly on Psychfic under the name Tazmy so as not to clog up the mailboxes of everyone who has me on alert for SGA. I'll continue to post chapters of this fic here if there is any interest (Is there? Or is it the same audience?), but you should check out Psychfic for my other stories if you want.


	2. Confessions

**Gus**

Despite many of Gus's attempts, Shawn mostly avoided hanging out in the weeks after the _incident_. So when Shawn called him with the suggestion of a day on the town complete with clowns and cotton candy, Gus didn't hesitate to accept. He remembered a similar call some years previous, and Shawn had left just two days afterward.

This outing, nice as it was, was a goodbye.

"Since when do you choose mango over pineapple?" Gus asked while sipping his strawberry shake and watching the tide come in. Truth be told, he'd gotten sick of pineapple over the years, but he dared not tell Shawn lest he incur a lecture about the _awesomeness _of the_ divine_ fruit.

Shawn cupped his hands around his own shake. "Please, Gus, the mango will hear you. It doesn't know my heart belongs to pineapple and there's no way to predict how it will react if it finds out."

Gus could almost pretend this was normal, that everything had been set right back where it should be. They'd spent the day at the arcade, ignoring the ten-year-old twins who desperately wanted to try the racing game Shawn and Gus were playing nonstop. Once they were kicked out, they bought food from any vendor that happened by as they walked along the waterfront.

Everything was not normal, however. Shawn's distant gaze or the occasional flinch every time the saw a child near Iris's age, made Gus's stomach drop and roll. He was Shawn's best friend, it was his job to take care of Shawn, to make sure he was all right, and to help him though any of the troubled times. Yet eight weeks had passed and Gus had utterly failed in doing anything useful to bring Shawn back to himself.

Maybe it was because Gus was just as distant.

He thought back to their last real conversation. It'd been just two days after the incident.

Rain pounded on the cement in double time, with large, hard pellets. Gus wasn't sure how long Shawn had been outside, but he was dripping wet and shivering.

Any other day, Gus might have asked why Shawn had chosen 3 am to appear, but Shawn's red eyes immediately stopped any complaint. Waving his friend in, Gus rushed to grab some towels and a robe. "Take these before you catch pneumonia," he ordered.

Gus longed to ask Shawn what had happened with Iris and how he'd known to get to the warehouse. He still needed to hear the non-abridged, non-psychic version Shawn hadn't given the police. As partners and best friends, they told each other everything, but after the incident Shawn had shrugged Gus away saying he didn't want to talk about.

Shawn didn't do silent. That's why Gus knew it was something big. Shawn had a reason for blaming himself, and the sinking feeling in Gus's gut told him he might be right. And if Shawn was right, then did Gus share some of the blame? Was that why Shawn was keeping quiet?

Shawn carefully sipped Gus's hot chocolate, averting any of Gus's worried glances, and not saying a word. The image of a speechless, drenched Shawn activated every one of Gus's warning alarms. It was time to make a joke, to set Shawn right back on his feet with banter, but somehow no joke came to mind.

Instead, Gus settled for, "Are you going to be okay?"

He'd preferred to ask about what happened, or to demand answers to how Shawn knew where Iris would be, but Shawn's welfare was more important than a few facts.

Shawn shifted, placing his drink on the coffee table with a trembling hand. "Please, we both know that's not the question you want to ask."

It was deflection, Gus recognized, because Shawn had no interest in admitting he wasn't fine. Not that the lack of smiles or jokes didn't give that away already.

"Okay then," Gus answered, rolling back his shoulders in preparation for the worst, "What happened?"

"See, now isn't that better? I'm telling you, Gus, if you let things fester like that inside you then it just turns moldy and smelly and soon no self-respecting woman is going to get near you and how will you get a date at that point?"

"Shawn?"

Their gazes met for a half and instant before Shawn broke away only to stare at the floor. "You really want to know?"

"Yeah. I do."

"Someone fed us false information. Someone who figured out I wasn't psychic and used the knowledge to plant false information and to distract us. If w—if _I _hadn't fallen for it, then Iris would still be alive."

Now, as Gus reflected back on the eight-week old conversation, he still couldn't process what Shawn had said. There were too many _what ifs _to know for certain how it would have ended up. One thing was for certain, the police hadn't been close to finding Iris. If Shawn hadn't been there, hadn't pretended to be psychic, they probably wouldn't have found her at all. Doubt, however, was a poison traveling through Gus's veins, keeping him awake at night. What if their con really had led to Iris's death?

The guilt was terrible, but so was watching his friend descend deeper into darkness over the whole incident.

The sun slowly descended along the horizon, its rays dancing along the water's edge. Summoning courage, Gus finally asked, "What were you and your dad arguing about?"

Shawn twitched slightly, mostly unnoticeable.

"He didn't approve of me cheating on pineapple with mango. He said I had to choose one and let the other down easy."

"Are you going to leave?" The answer was no, of course. If Shawn wanted to leave, he wouldn't have waited two months to do so. He would have said goodbye without really saying it and then disappeared only to be heard again by phone calls and postcards. But _something _was up.

The fact that Shawn let his question go unanswered only served to confirm Gus's suspicions.

"Shawn."

"Yeah."

"You know you can't turn yourself in, right? I mean, it would be stupid. Stupider even that the cheese incident of 1995 and I don't have to remind you just how stupid _that_ was."

Shawn toyed with the nearby sand, rubbing the granules against his fingers. Hesitantly, he glanced up at Gus and shrugged. The silent conversation lasted seconds, but Gus understood every silent word.

...

**Lassiter**

Except for a small skeleton crew, the station was empty. He'd go home himself, but he wasn't going to sleep anyway and there was still work to be done.

"Don't stay up too late," O'Hara had lectured him.

"Please, I'm not a child."

"Really? Could have fooled me." She smiled lightly, grabbing her coat and heading to the exit. She paused, swerving around on her heels and strode back to his desk. She paced three steps one way and then four another.

"Did you want something?"

"The Chief did a god job today. Maybe she's healing."

Or maybe she was just getting better at masking her hurt.

"Maybe."

Three more paces in each direction. She made to leave again, then paused. Staring at the desk, she said nothing.

"O'Hara!"

Officers turned at his sudden outburst, but quickly turned back.

"What's going on?"he asked, noticing how she nervously tapped her fingers against her leg.

"Do you think Shawn was acting strange the other day?" O'Hara bit down on her lower lip, as though surprised she'd asked the question.

"Spencer can take care of himself."

Doubtful. He wanted to ignore Spencer's strange behavior and the overwhelming feeling that Spencer was planning to do something stupid, but his detective instincts wouldn't allow it. Instead, he just didn't allow himself to care.

"You're not worried about him?"

His stomach rolled as he bit back any concern that dared to make itself known. "I'm just grateful he hasn't been around the station much. We can finally get work done."

O'Hara opened her mouth to argue but no words came out. Instead she nodded knowingly at her partner. "He'll be back. We just need to give him time."

"I sure hope not. Are you trying to give me nightmares?"

"Pretend not to care all you want, Carlton. I for one worry about my friends."

The reply wasn't angry. Somehow, O'Hara knew him well enough to see past his facade and to the underlying worry. He felt strangely demasked.

Before he could respond, she made a quick about face and left.

Carlton glanced at his watch, realizing that the conversation had taken place nearly four hours previous. Yet he was still there, pouring over old files from the case.

His mind wandered. He wondered if maybe he was wrong. Was the chief ready to come back? Maybe it was good for her to hide in work and forget about the outside world. Still, part of him wondered how long until she made a mistake, or how long until she froze at a critical moment. She wouldn't heal for a while, she never truly would, and he knew nothing of these...things.

Not that he was doing all that well himself. A few nights of sleep here and there wasn't cutting it and if he didn't find rest soon, maybe he'd be the one making a mistake. Glancing at O'Hara's empty desk, he couldn't ignore the strange auras hindering his vision, testifying to his need for sleep.

The folder felt heavy. He glanced through it three more times, wondering what else he missed. What wasn't he seeing? His fuzzy vision made reading the words impossible, but he'd already memorized all of them.

Resigned, he closed the folder and placed it carefully in his bottom drawer, glancing warily around him to see if anyone was looking. At last, he grabbed his jacket and made for the exit.

The trip home seemed longer than normal. His thoughts wandered to Spencer and his unease at the station. Years of detective work had taught Carlton to notice unusual behavior or to register when things were off. Spencer was fidgeting. His expression was haunted. There was the distinct feeling he was coming by to confess something but never quite managed the words. All were tell tale signs that he was planning something, and for some reason, Carlton couldn't stop contemplating the possibilities.

He hated to admit it, but it was hard to ignore the facts. A part of him knew that Spencer belonged at the station, helping with cases. Without Spencer or Vick, the last few months had felt surreal and wrong.

Forcing those thoughts as far away from his consciousness as possible, Carlton pulled into his drive. His heart jumped. It was hardly noticeable in the dark from a distance, but his front door was definitely ajar. Pulling out his weapon, he briefly considered calling for backup before dismissing the idea. He could handle a simple B&E on his own..

Hunching low, he quickly moved against the house and toward the open door. There were noises, two men arguing but he couldn't make out the words. Listening carefully, he heard a third voice, this one louder and accompanied by music. Noticing the blue glow from his television set and the lone figure sitting on his couch, Carlton lowered his weapon.

"Jesus, Spencer! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What am I doing? What are you doing? Do you realize it's 3 am? I've watched all three Back To The Future movies waiting for you to show up. I'd almost forgotten how much the third one sucks. Seriously, what were they thinking? Oh, and I finished your guava juice. It was getting close to expiration so I didn't think--"

"Why are you in my house?" Holstering his gun, Carlton felt fury build within him. Wrappers covered the living room floor. Streams of guava juice dripped from the coffee table to the floor below, mixing with various cookie crumbs and broken chips. "What did you do to my house?"

Working hard to quell his anger, Carlton felt his eyes twitch. It was hard to believe he'd actually been worried about Spencer. In fact, shooting the annoying so-called psychic sounded like a far better use of his time.

"In all fairness, I think it looks better this way. It was too clean, really, made it look like an anal-retentive freak lived here. If you think about it, I did you a favor."

"You have thirty seconds before I arrest you for breaking and entering. I suggest you cut the crap and start explaining."

Spencer lifted his arm to his mouth, his fist hidden beneath his sleeve. Carlton had only seen him use this gesture a few times in the past, all when he was being serious and trying to think. The humor vanished from his expression.

"I have something to confess."

There was a strange vulnerability to Spencer as he stared openly at the detective, laying his heart in the open. A heavy burden must have settled on his conscience and Spencer was sure to crumple under its weight. Suddenly the mess on his floor and the broken lock didn't seem like such a big deal after all.

Rather than admit any of this, Carlton chose to deflect.

"Confess what exactly? That you're an idiot? Strangely enough, I figured that out all on my own."

He'd expected Spencer to take the bait and quip back. Instead, Spencer kept his sleeve at his mouth, jumped off the couch, and lifted his chin. He seemed a man preparing himself for execution, but he was also excited by false enthusiasm.

"I'm serious. I thought about it. I could tell the chief but then I'd have to face her and I'm not sure... Anyway. I could tell Jules but... See this is more fitting. This makes sense. It's more karmic, I think."

"Karmic?" He wanted to answer with so much more. Perhaps even a "what the hell?" but only the single word managed to escape.

"You've always wanted to arrest me, right? I'm giving you your chance! As I said, I have something to confess."

Spencer's body language told Carlton all he needed to know. It was in the way Spencer's back suddenly straightened and the way his hand trembled despite the feigned elation.

He'd never seen Spencer this agitated, save for the Yang case some years previous. Spencer didn't really do serious and he didn't bother confessing either. The whole scene, from the B&E to the pain in Spencer's eyes was completely uncharacteristic and unsettling.

Then the answer hit him—what it was Spencer could possibly confess. The moment he thought of the idea, Carlton knew it was the right one and suddenly all of Shawn's actions began to make sense. Tearing his house up was a last hoorah to times that would never be again.

Suddenly Carlton had no interest in why Spencer broke into his house.

"You know what, I don't have time for this. It's 3 am and I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow. Get out of my house."

"C'mon, Lassieface, don't tell me you're not the least bit curious? I'm about to hand myself over, lock stock and barrel and let you throw away the key. You can't tell me that doesn't peak your interest."

"Out of my house. Now."

The battle of wills took place in silence. Neither blinked. After a few seconds of motionless staring, Spencer took a step back and shook his head.

"No."

"No? It's not a request." Carlton wasn't sure what he was feeling anymore. Something between rage and fear and a whole plethora of other emotions that wouldn't be identified. His fist clenched back and forth as he tried to find some way, any way, of keeping Spencer quiet. "Leave, or I will arrest you."

"Uh, yeah, that would be the entire point of my coming here. As I said, I have something to confess."

"Do I look like a priest? Do I look like I'm on duty? I don't care about anything you have to say, you got that? Now get---"

"I'm not psychic." Spencer said the words simply, as though he were talking about what to eat for lunch. His eyes, however, said so much more. He locked stares with Carlton, unmasking all of his hurt and guilt. It was almost as though he were pleading with Carlton to react.

Carlton froze. For so many years, he'd longed to hear that confession. Yet now that the words were out, hovering between them like a blazing fire, he felt no vindication.

"You're a real piece of work, Spencer. You know that?"

"I've been told." Just as quickly, the mask returned. "I'm pretty sure this is the part where you start reading me my rights. Right to remain silent. Right to cupcakes and pineapples. There are pineapples in prison, right?"

Theoretically, he could pretend the words were never spoken. He could just march upstairs, crawl under the covers, and even ignore his alarm when it went off in three hours. Yet the real world didn't operate on theories alone. Above anything else, he was a detective and a dedicated officer. He wasn't above the law any more than Spencer was.

"You forgot the right to be an idiot."

"What about the right to annoy head detectives? If there's not already a provision for that, there should be."

Palms forward, keyhole up, clasp the left wrist followed the by the right. Less than three seconds later, Spencer would officially be in custody. Only Carlton never took out his cuffs.

"You could have done this at the station, you know. Saved me a lot of trouble."

"Ah, but then I'd have missed your face when you saw I trashed your house. It was truly priceless and for that I am eternally grateful."

"Spencer?"

"Yeah?"

"You have the right to remain silent. For the love of all that is just, shut up."

Anger boiled within Carlton. How dare Spencer choose this moment to confess? Did he think Carlton was heartless? That he'd feel only elation at bringing down a good investigator who was obviously in pain and acting rashly? Just who the hell did Spencer think he was?

Continuing to clench his fists in an attempt to remain calm, he watched as Spencer's face fell again, his brief smile quickly fading.

"About that, aren't you supposed to, I don't know, cuff me? Take me to the station?"

Carlton drew in a deep breath. He stepped back, toward the entrance way, shaking his head. 3 am was too early for this shit.

"Tomorrow."

"Come again?" Spencer's deer-in-headlights look was almost comical.

"It's 3 am. I'm going to bed."

Pausing at the entryway, Carlton watched Spencer with a furrowed brow. For a brief moment, he'd seen all of Spencer's guilt and he understood why Spencer was doing this. Spencer couldn't run.. He couldn't pretend it was all okay. He needed to come clean and have the world blame him because the guilt and doubt was too much to bear alone. Much as it pained Carlton to admit it, he felt sorry for the man.

Meanwhile, Spencer tilted his head, watching Carlton as closely as Carlton was watching him. His gaze narrowed. Slowly and deliberately, Spencer moved to the couch and turned back on the television, stealing the occasional glance back at Carlton. "Okay....I'll just wait here then."

"You do that. I'll see you in the morning."

**Chapter End Notes:**

Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you think.


	3. Eye of the Storm

**Henry**

He didn't want to appear overly concerned so he stopped calling Shawn after the first few tries went to voice mail. Well, no, that wasn't exactly true. The first few hours he'd managed to distract himself with fishing, but then he'd tried again just in case Shawn had missed the previous messages.

It was stupid of him really. Gus had Shawn's back. There was no reason to worry. Except that there was.

He'd told Shawn to leave.

He'd told Shawn to jump on his bike and leave town. To leave _him_.

He relived that conversation over and over in his mind knowing that he'd finally found the right words to say to Shawn. They were the words Henry never wanted—never could have imagined needing to say, yet they were the only ones that Shawn needed to hear. It'd taken eight weeks for Henry to find the courage to say them, but Shawn wasn't listening.

When the fishing failed to keep his mind off Shawn, Henry moved to manual labor. He worked on fixing the gutters and the lawn and the plumbing until he realized that wasn't helping any either. By this time, it was nearly 5 in the morning. Shawn had failed to call back. Henry had failed to sleep.

He'd thought of calling Shawn again, but couldn't come up with a good excuse on why to call at 5 am. Instead, he made himself breakfast and stared vacantly at the kitchen wall.

Did Shawn take his advice? Was he half way to nowhere right now, or was he in his apartment, still contemplating the most idiotic move of his lifetime?

Henry hoped Shawn had left.

Henry hoped Shawn had stayed.

He just hoped and prayed that his son was okay and not about to throw away everything.

Henry knew better. He'd seen the truth in Shawn's eyes. Once that boy set his mind to something, there was no stopping him. Henry had learned this lesson enough times in the past, but couldn't help hoping that this time would be different.

By the time 7 am rolled around, Henry contemplated calling Gus. He could feign some reason and Gus would pretend not to notice.

His hand paused just millimeters from his phone.

Instead, he grabbed his jacket and headed out the door. To his mind, it was destination unknown. Maybe he'd go to the pancake house just down the street. His legs, however, had a different idea. They guided him to his truck, and moments later, Henry found himself just outside Shawn's apartment.

He couldn't just wait for things to happen, he realized. It was now or never. Make Shawn listen or sit back while everything spun out of control.

Not that Shawn had listened to Henry before. He wasn't on his bike on Route 66 with the heart of Kerouac driving him forward. Henry didn't need to see the Norton to know this because he _knew_ his son.

Henry clenched his fists. He didn't know what would happen when Shawn turned himself in. Maybe they'd send him to prison and maybe they wouldn't. It depended on a number of factors, really. But once Shawn told the truth, the life he had worked so hard to build up would be gone.

Much as Henry hated to admit it, Psych was an integral part of Shawn. It took everything that Shawn was and made something positive, even if the initial layers were just an act. If Shawn lost his chance to restart the business, he'd be giving up everything that he was and could be. Maybe that was the whole point.

Henry wouldn't let that happen. Not as long as he could do something about it.

He hesitated at Shawn's door, his hand once again refusing to do what it was told. Instead of knocking, it stubbornly dove into his pocket and refused to come out.

He paced, wondering why he'd come here in the first place. What would he say? "Sorry to wake you, I just wanted to make sure you weren't still being an idiot?" Yeah, that would go over well.

The neighbor three doors down eyed Henry suspiciously, as he continued pacing the hallway. This was getting ridiculous. If he didn't knock on Shawn's door, someone was bound to question his presence.

Resigned to the inevitable, and driven by the need to save his son, Henry pounded on the door.

Thirty three seconds later (he hadn't realized he'd been counting), it creaked open to reveal a yawning Gus. He was wearing the same outfit as yesterday, only it was now covered in wrinkles. Behind him, the cushions of Shawn's couch were mostly on the messy floor, replaced by a blanket and some pillows.

"Mr. Spencer? Is everything okay?"

It was a stupid question. No, everything was not okay. It hadn't been okay for a while.

"Is Shawn here?"

Gus shook his head and stood aside so Henry could enter the apartment.

"No. I've been waiting to see if he'd show up, but I guess not. Why?"

Henry shifted slightly. He wasn't worried, not really. "I just wanted to see if he wanted breakfast."

Gus shifted toward the messy kitchen, finding a single glass left in the cabinet. Filling it with water, he turned back to Henry. "Is he really going to turn himself in?"

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

There was a long pause in which Gus drank his water and Henry glanced around the room; searching for some clue as to where Shawn might be.

"Maybe we can still find him?"

"Maybe. Depends on if he wants to be found."

Gus shrugged. Henry knew that Gus was hurting as well. His friendship with Shawn was everything to Gus, and Gus's friendship was everything to Shawn. Together, they faced so much more than they ever could alone. Without Shawn, Gus's back slouched, lines of worry outlined his eyes, and there was a distinct emptiness all around him.

Henry wanted to tell him it would be okay, but platitudes were hollow and useless.

"He's not at the Psych office," Gus explained. "I looked for him everywhere before I came here."

There was a sudden energy in the room, as both understood that backing down was out of the question. Henry allowed this energy to fuel him, driving him forward. As long as he had something to concentrate on, he could hold the worry at bay.

But if Shawn wasn't at Psych, or any of his usual haunts, there was no way to know where his son had gone.

Maybe he had left?

It was a momentary hope, and it was strange how the thought comforted him, but it quickly fled. No, Shawn hadn't listened to him. Henry had learned long ago how to tell when he'd broken through Shawn's thick skull, and he'd definitely failed.

"We could try staking out the station. Catch him before he goes in," Henry suggested.

"I'll get my jacket."

**Juliet**

She always wanted to be a mother. Finding the right partner and enough time made that goal a distant dream. At one point, she thought Shawn might be that person, but in five years nothing had happened and she was still alone.

She still held out hope, though. Maybe one day she would understand the joy that came with little ones running around with smiles and innocence, each looking to her for guidance and love. Maybe one day it would be hers.

It was hard to accept that the chief was given this wonderful miracle only to have it stripped away from her. Was that worse than never having a child at all? Juliet didn't know. Didn't want to know.

"How are you holding up?"

Karen flinched slightly at the question, momentarily losing her carefully placed mask. She didn't look up. "There's a lot of work to be done today. I need you to handle the Burkman case alone until Detective Lassiter graces us with his presence."

Juliet glanced at her watch. Carlton was only five minutes late, yet she couldn't help but worry. In all the time that they'd been partners, she could count on one hand the number of times he'd been late and each time he'd been in danger.

"I'll give him a call," Juliet offered, taking the Burkman case file and exiting the chief's office.

It was nice having Karen back behind the desk instead of her partner. It wasn't that Carlton wasn't a capable leader. To the contrary, he'd handled each emergency with skill and a level head. It was more that she missed bouncing ideas off him, or watching him reign in a confession from the most unlikely of suspects. She also missed watching his head explode whenever Spencer showed up and solved the cases for them. She missed a lot of things, really.

She missed Shawn.

Irritation returned as she remembered how Shawn had abandoned them. Eight weeks of not answering his phone. Eight weeks of not stopping by. Then he'd just walked into the station as though...as though something. She wasn't really sure how that line ended, because it wasn't as if anything was normal.

She still missed him though.

Grabbing her phone, she hesitated at Shawn's number and considered calling. If she asked him to come in, would he?

Scrolling down, she quickly highlighted Lassiter's name and pressed the send button. The first try went straight to voice mail. Figuring his cell phone was dead, she dialed his house number. It rang once before an enthusiastic voice answered, "Lassiter residence, home of Detective Lassiter, head detective, head honcho, and head case."

"Shawn?" The phone slipped out of her hand momentarily as she wondered momentarily if she'd accidentally called Shawn after all.

"Jules! What can I do for you?"

"Why are you at Carlton's house?"

"I'm a little fuzzy on that part myself. You'll have to ask him once he wakes up, which hopefully won't be for a few hours. I disabled his alarm. Looking back, I probably should have told you he'd be late today."

Juliet tried to process the words, but, as with most things Spencer, only about half of it made any sense. Something bad must have happened, she realized, her heart sinking.

"Is he okay?" She was surprised just how much her voice shook as the phone started to slip once more from her sweaty hands.

"Just overdue on sleep. I'm waiting around here until he wakes up and then I'll see you at the station."

"You're coming in?" She practically bounced out of her seat with elation before remembering she was irritated with him.

There was a hesitant pause before Shawn answered, "Something like that, yeah. You'll see when I get there."

There was definitely something wrong. Shawn sounded like himself, but she could still hear the distant undertones that screamed he was upset. She flashed back to his recent visit and how off it'd felt. Whatever was going on, it was big.

"Can you have Carlton call me when he wakes up?"

"Yeah, no problem. Oooo Ghostbuster back-to-back special. I gotta go!" There was a sudden click and then silence.

**Lassiter**

The phone jolted him awake. He moved to answer it, but after one ring, the phone was already silent.

The night's events flooded back to him and he swore quietly under his breath. Carlton wasn't above the law. Spencer wasn't above the law. However, arresting Spencer was about as bad an idea as he could contemplate.

Damn.

Through blurry vision, he read the digital numbers by his bed. Crap. He'd manage to sleep but at the expense of being late. He hated being late.

Reaching for his phone, he quickly dialed O'Hara.

Before the first ring had a chance to finish, she answered. "Carlton? What's going on? Why is Shawn answering your phone?"

"We have a problem." He drew in a deep breath. This was why he never wanted Spencer involved in cases. This was why... Damn it!

"What? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Listen, are you sitting down?"

"Oh, God, something bad happened, didn't it? Tell me, Carlton."

"Spencer confessed."

He delivered the news in much the same way he would announce someone's death. He didn't mean to be so transparent, but the previous evening had worn him down, and the lack of sleep was taking its toll. God, he really needed sleep.

There was a short pause before O'Hara responded. "Confessed? Confessed to what?"

"You know what!" He didn't mean to shout, but O'Hara wasn't an idiot. Did she really want him to explain in detail? "That moron just confessed to the one thing we've always suspected but never could prove. The one reason he never should have been hired as a consultant in the first place. He _confessed_ and you know what that means."

Silence on the other end. He imagined Jules cupping the phone close to her mouth while avoiding any passerbys that might overhear. Meanwhile, he counted every beat of his of racing heart.

"Are you going to arrest him?" He detected the slight dip in her voice. She probably felt betrayed, but by whom? From Spencer for lying? Surely she'd been able to see though his facade long before this? Or maybe it was from Lassiter himself because she knew he'd arrest him? Maybe both of them were betraying her; he wasn't really sure.

"I don't have a choice, O'Hara. Someone should let the Chief know. If this gets out..."

"I know. I know. Listen, I don't think you should. Arrest him that is."

"I don't like what you're implying, O'Hara. I'm not above the law."

Or so he kept telling himself. Still, it would be so easy not to turn in the paperwork. To not let anyone else know what had transpired the other night.

Sometimes Carlton hated his choice in careers. It wasn't often, as he was born to be a detective, but sometimes he wondered if life would be simpler, better, if he'd never worn a badge.

On the other line, he could hear O'Hara's fear and hurt as she whispered, "There could be some serious backlash. He's got to realize this. Why would he...?"

"I don't know. All I know is that he's downstairs and he's not planning to leave until I arrest him. I tried to give him an out last night and he obviously didn't take it."

"How'd he get in your house in the first place?"

Carlton sighed. What did it matter how events went round the bend? The fact was that hell was handing out hand baskets in bulk and he was forced to fan the fires.

"He broke the lock on my front door. Mostly I think he just wanted to piss me off."

"Then arrest him for that?"

"For pissing me off?"

"For the B&E. He doesn't need to know you didn't bring up fraud charges and that will buy us time to talk to the chief and figure out how to handle this."

Listening to something shatter in his kitchen, Carlton groaned. He leaned back against his bed, wishing he could restart the day, or possibly the whole year. "You'll inform the chief?"

"I'm on my way to her office now. And Carlton?"

"Yeah?"

"We'll fix this."

He hung up the phone just on time to hear another shatter. Spencer was definitely going out of his way to annoy him and it was definitely working.

Resigned to the fact it would be a bad day, Carlton forced himself out of bed and into the shower. Allowing the hot water to wash away his grief, he thought of how everyone would react when he brought Spencer to the station in cuffs. Some would be angry, some would feel betrayed, and the rest would have seen it coming a mile away only to wonder why it took so long. The important reaction would be the chief's.

He flashed back to the sharpness in her voice when she asked if he'd blamed Spencer. Whatever reason Spencer had for confessing now, it was connected to Vick's case. Did Spencer know a missing piece to the puzzle? Was he actually partly to blame for what had happened? Carlton doubted it, but didn't doubt that Spencer believed he was at fault. Why? Carlton didn't really know, but somehow the next few hours would be key if they wanted this to blow over. The last thing the police department needed was scandal forcing them to reopen dozens of old homicide investigations.

Drying off, he stepped out of the shower and gazed at himself in the mirror. The black bags beneath his eyes begged him to return to bed, despite his having had four hours of sleep. "Soon," he told himself, as he did every morning. "Soon."

Spencer was in the kitchen when Carlton finally entered the common area. Five dirty pans littered his counter top. Dishes threatened to topple out of his sink, and two already had. It was hard to believe only one man had crashed here and not an entire army.

"You're awake!" Far too chipper for the morning, Spencer practically hopped to Carlton with a manic glint. Ducking his head beneath Carlton's he reached out as if to touch the bags under his eyes. "No offense, dude, but you still look awful. Sure you don't want to sleep a little longer? I'll still be here."

Carlton shivered with anger. Maybe arresting Spencer was the right move after all. Desperate to control himself, he answered through gritted teeth, "That's what I'm afraid of. Any longer and I won't have a house left to live in."

"I do try," Spencer admitted, glancing proudly at his mayhem. Then he spun around, still smiling as though nothing had happened the previous night. "Jules called. She sounded worried. Possibly annoyed. It's kind of hard to tell the difference with her sometimes, you know what I mean?"

"We already talked."

He stood there, staring at his torn kitchen and living room, and wondered why there were no cuffs in his hand yet. His stomach roiled as his conscience screamed, drowning out any anger. The whole situation was out of his control. It was everything he had ever wanted, and yet nothing that he cared for.

"So, uh, we gonna do this, or what?" Spencer prodded, his smile fading.

Carlton nodded sharply then reached behind him. The silver cuffs felt heavy enough to be made of gold, as though they bore the weight of what Carlton must do. Not that he had a choice. "Turn around."

Hesitating only a moment, Carlton clasped the cuffs. "Just for the record, this is the stupidest thing you've done yet."

"I strive to new levels of stupidity every day."

Taking a final glance at his kitchen, Carlton might have grabbed Spencer's arm a little harder than was necessary. After all, he'd wanted to make this arrest for years now. Damn it all if he wasn't going to enjoy it just a little bit. Even if this absolutely and completely sucked.

----

Thanks to everyone still reading. Thanks to those still reviewing. Hugs and cookies for all.


	4. And So It Begins

**Author's Chapter Notes:**

Thanks to mathnerd for the beta and Angela for being my second pair of eyes. Thanks to DG for the encouragement and edits on earlier versions of this chapter. Thanks to everyone who has helped with the evolution of this story.

* * *

**HIM**

He was forgotten.

No one cared anymore about what he had done.

What he had lost.

He wanted to show them.

He wanted to make them pay.

He needed them to understand.

What he felt.

It was time to move.

At last, he could finally show them the truth.

Show them the pain.

He could hardly quell his excitement.

It was really going to happen.

At last.

There were two figures in a red truck outside of the police station. They were also staking it out. He recognized them immediately as the father and best friend of the fraud.

The fraud he'd played for a fool.

The fraud he'd shown the truth.

It would be easier to do this with _him_ out of the way.

Just not as interesting.

Not as challenging.

Why were they staking out the place? Did they know something he didn't? What were they looking for?

Unknowns made him nervous.

Unknowns led to mistakes.

They shouldn't be there.

They could ruin everything.

Maybe he should abort the mission.

Just wait one more day.

Then he could have revenge.

He could make them pay again.

Make them understand.

He was noticed.

They watched him sure as he watched them.

Another day.

One more day.

Then he could finish what he started.

Then they would understand.

...

**Gus**

It was the rare instance when he couldn't help Shawn.

As his best friend, he understood Shawn in a way no one else ever could. When Shawn needed a laugh, Gus was always there to provide a joke. When Shawn was out of line, it was Gus who could calm him down. He was Shawn's partner in mayhem, but he was also Shawn's reality check.

So why couldn't he find the right words? He'd been searching for them since he first realized what Shawn was planning. For the first time in over a decade, he just didn't know what to say.

"So what's the plan?" Gus asked Henry. He reached for his third donut of the morning, maple with chocolate drizzling and sprinkles. It was all about the sprinkles. Part of him knew he was eating to hide his anxiety, but the rest of him couldn't care less.

Beside him, Henry expertly watched their surroundings. Unlike stake-out-Shawn, Henry was focused and attentive. Since they'd first pulled up, he'd only spoken to critique Gus's bad stakeout skills or to give pointers on how to see more with just a few glances. It reminded Gus of the training sessions from when he was young.

When they were carefree.

His stomach sank. He wanted those days back. He needed Psych. He needed his friend.

"We talk him out of being an idiot," Henry explained.

"No offense, Mr. Spencer, but that didn't work out so well for either of us before."

Henry's knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. He gazed darkly at the main entrance. "Whatever happens, we don't let him enter the station. Got that?"

For a moment, Gus imagined Shawn and Henry literally decking it out in front of the police and couldn't help but laugh. Henry and Shawn had experienced many blowouts, but they'd never turned physical. Gus was sure Henry was incapable of laying a hand on his son, and, likewise, Shawn preferred fighting with words rather than fists.

With this in mind, Gus couldn't help but wonder what other options were left to them.

His answer came in the form of a Henry-riddle.

"A good fisherman uses the right lure."

"Okay. Now I'm confused. I thought we were here for Shawn, not fishing."

"Think about it, Gus. If we can't convince him not to walk in there, we need to trick him into walking away on his own. The best way to do that is with the right lure. Something he'll grab onto even if he suspects a trap."

"Like chocolate pancakes?"

"Exactly. We'll invite him out for chocolate pancakes. That boy was always easily distracted by food."

"Okay. Then what?"

"We take him to my house and lock the doors."

It was a good thing Gus had already finished his donut or he was sure it would have landed on the windshield. After the coughing stopped, he drew in a few heavy breaths. "Kidnap Shawn? Um, no offense, Mr. Spencer, but don't you think that's taking things a bit far?"

If he agreed, Henry didn't show it. "Just until he sees reason. He's going to be locked up anyway so what does it matter if it's in my house or a jail cell?"

"I'm fairly cert--"

Suddenly, Henry's back stiffened, his concern quickly replaced by some other emotion. Suspicion? Henry motioned for silence, but the change in moods had already left Gus speechless.

Reaching over Gus, Henry quickly opened the glove compartment and pulled out a set of binoculars.

Gus's heart pounded, allowing him to count each individual beat. "What, is it? Shawn?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"I don't think we're the only ones on a stake out. Take a look."

Taking the binoculars, Gus looked for anything suspicious. At first he didn't see anything unusual. Just a few passersby, a few vehicles, and even a few cops. Nothing strange, given they were outside the police station.

"I don't..." His sentence trailed off as he noticed the black Avalon. Inside was a man with his own pair of binoculars, watching a nearby alley. Before Gus had a chance to glance away, the man turned toward Henry's truck. Immediately upon seeing he was noticed, he shifted gears and sped away.

"Dude! That guy was watching us!"

"Maybe." Henry watched the car disappear before reaching over Gus and into the glove compartment again. "I got most of the plate," he explained as he pulled out a piece of paper and pen. While Henry was a good cop, he didn't share Shawn's eidetic memory.

"What was that about?" Gus asked. "Should we report this to someone?"

"And tell them what, Gus? That we saw someone staking out the police station while we were doing the same? That will go over well."

Henry drew a deep breath, his hand hovering just above the handle door. "It's probably better not to call attention to ourselves right now. Not until we have Shawn."

Remembering their original purpose for camping outside the station, Gus glanced through each window and then the rear view mirror. His heart stopped and his gut plummeted.

"Uh, Mr. Spencer."

"Yeah, Gus."

"I think I found him."

Henry stopped scribbling his description and looked up. Two fists slammed against the steering wheel. "Damn it!"

Gus flinched.

"Sorry." Henry took off his cap just long enough to run his hand over his head and regain his composure.

There was something wrong about Lassiter leading Shawn into the station as though he were any other suspect. Not that Shawn seemed to notice. He was smiling, talking, and, judging by Lassiter's scowl, generally making a nuisance of himself. At least if he was going down, he was going to do so in pure Shawn fashion.

...

**Shawn**

He continued talking despite Lassie's groans because talking made everything better. If he refused to acknowledge the pain then the pain could not acknowledge him.

"Seriously, they have to have pineapple in prison. If not, I think that might violate the cruel and unusual punishment laws. I need three meals of pineapple everyday or I wilt away and die. You don't want that to happen. I know you don't."

It was hard to say why he was doing this. Maybe it was the overwhelming need to confess, or maybe it was just the fact the chief deserved to know—needed to know the truth.

Now she would have that chance. No masks, no lies, no cover-ups, just the hard facts and Shawn's willingness to take the much deserved blame. It was his fault, after all. He'd had two months to relive the events over and over in picture-perfect quality, and now it was time to share that truth with the others.

He'd been surprised how much it took for Lassie to arrest him. There was no doubt the head detective cared more than he let on, but Shawn had counted on the law-abiding part of Lassie to just accept Shawn's confession and leave it to the law to handle the rest. Fraud was fraud, after all; it didn't matter who the perpetrator was.

When Lassie decided to go to bed instead of take him in, Shawn was at a loss.

He'd spent the remaining hours thinking, wondering, if he was doing the right thing. Old cases would be reopened, but the evidence and confessions would keep the perpetrators behind bars. The SBPD wouldn't be allowed to use his services again, but that just meant he could stop lying to the people he cared about. Not that most of them couldn't see right through him anyway—or at least he was fairly sure they could.

Would they send him to prison? That was the one question Shawn couldn't answer. A dozen scenarios played in his mind, and only a few led to him remaining under lock and key for a few years. Yet somehow he knew that was where he belonged. He deserved every day of the maximum penalty because he'd failed Iris. He'd failed his friends.

"Move it, Spencer," Lassie ordered, but his soft voice betrayed deeper emotions. Shawn didn't miss the way Lassie looked everywhere but at him, or how the detective heaved a large, resigned sigh as he glanced at the police station.

The closer Shawn came toward the station, the more his heart raced. This was it. It was finally time to meet his fate. To tell his story.

He didn't miss the red truck parked just a block away, or the saddened occupants. He nodded carefully toward his dad and best friend. _Don't interfere. _Gus nodded sharply in return to show he understood, but Henry shook his head, his expression unreadable. Shawn wouldn't put it past his dad to barge into the station, demanding his son be set free. Sometimes emotions made grown men do very stupid things.

The station was bustling with activity. Shawn caught only a glance of this before the scene paused.

He felt like the main attraction in a circus as all eyes turned to him. He saw Buzz, recently made detective, watch Lassie and Shawn with a mixture of concern and surprise. The way his fists clenched made Shawn wonder if Buzz would try to protect him from Lassie's grasp, not knowing Shawn had _chosen_ this.

Shawn fidgeted with the cuffs, surprised at how heavy they felt. They were nothing like the play handcuffs he'd used as a kid. For once, Shawn wasn't playing a game. This was real.

Lassie led Shawn to the desk, grabbing the necessary forms. He remained motionless, staring at the papers in his hand as though they were a bloody blade. A moment later, Lassie came back to himself and glared angrily at the few officers still watching them, and the many pretending not to. "I'm sure you all have work to do!" he shouted.

Then his icy glare turned on Shawn.

Shawn froze. He'd seen Lassie livid or hurt, but he'd never seen _that_ expression from him. The detective should've been happy that he finally had his proof, but instead he felt betrayed. What surprised Shawn the most was that Lassie would display this so openly in front of everyone.

Lassie bowed his head and leaned against the counter. Shawn knew he was desperately trying to regain control of himself. Lassie often lost his temper, but he was as much a master at hiding his emotions as Henry and Shawn were. True pain and anguish rarely penetrated his carefully placed mask. It would take a moment to push those feelings back again.

Shawn should have quipped. He should have found something to say to diffuse the situation and make everyone either smile or throw something at him. Instead he stood there, staring at Lassie's display of emotions and the people around them, humbled by their concern.

They didn't understand. He _needed _to do this. He _had _to confess.

A few feet away, Chief Vick emerged from her office with Jules in tow. In contrast to Lassie, both Vick's and Jules's heads were held high, as though they were two women on a mission.

"Detective." Vick's voice had an instant effect. Lassie vanquished his painful thoughts and straightened his back and his uniform. Head held high, he turned toward his boss as though this were any other case.

"Chief?"

"Detective O'Hara will take over from here."

Lassie glanced anxiously at his partner. Shawn didn't need to be a mind reader to know Lassie wanted to protect her from this. Whatever_ this_ was.

Quickly, Lassie shook his head. "No, I got it, Chief."

"I wasn't asking," Vick snapped. Quickly regaining her composure, she added, "We need to talk."

There was neither anger nor sadness in her expression as she led Lassie away. Shawn wondered what festered beneath the mask. Did she blame him for what happened? Did she even know she should?

He wished he could wipe away her pain, but it would forever be with her. Still, Shawn was floored by Vick's inner strength. She came to work, she handled things with reserved calm, even when she was empty inside.

"C'mon, Shawn," Jules said gently as she grabbed his arm and led him away. He _felt_ the irritation underlying her voice as much as he heard the concern. She didn't make eye contact.

Instead of leading him toward processing, she detoured to the interrogation rooms. "Um, wrong way, Jules."

"The chief wants to talk to you first." She used her detective voice, as though Shawn were any other criminal. As though they had never been friends. Her indifference may have been a facade, but it still hurt.

"She's busy talking to Lassie. So unless she has magic cloning powers..."

She didn't reply to the unfinished statement. Reaching over, she opened the door to Interview Room A and led Shawn forward.

Just six years ago he'd met Lassie in this room, and Psych had begun. It was fitting that it would end here. His stomach sank.

Suddenly he felt the need to flee. This was real. He was turning himself in. Psych was ending. None of this was supposed to happen. If only he could have saved Iris...

"You'll wait here. It may be a while," Jules told him, still refusing to meet his eye. He noticed how her hand trembled despite her high chin.

"Are you okay?" He didn't even realize he was going to ask the question until he had. He'd known Jules long enough to sense her pain and hurt. He knew she was mad at him, but he also knew how much she cared. He had put her in this situation. Just one more thing that was his fault.

The professional face faded. "Yeah, I'm good, Shawn. Really."

He feigned his best smile. "Good. Because handcuffs, you, me, alone in an empty interrogation room. I gotta say, Jules, this is one of my all-time favorite fantasies right here."

Rather than reply, Jules nervously pushed her hair behind her ears, staring at the walls as though they were a brilliant painting. "The chief should be with you soon," she told him. "We'll fix this."

"I don't want you to." Once again, the words escaped before he could stop them. He wanted Jules to understand how much he needed this. He needed everyone to know just how badly he had failed without any sugar coating or misplaced assistance.

She turned to him, glancing into his eyes with firm resolve. "We _will _fix this, Shawn."

Despite himself, Shawn nodded.

Jules nodded back and moved to close the door.

"Uh, Jules?" Shawn motioned toward the cuffs still clasping his hands behind his back. His shoulders were really starting to ache and the last thing he needed was to sit alone, thinking, with his hands still locked behind him.

"Oh, sorry." Flustered she reached for her key and quickly released the cuffs.

"I don't know, Jules. I think your subconscious shares my fantasy."

"I'll check on you later."

The door shut behind her, leaving Shawn to the silence. He'd been in this room so many times before, but it felt strange waiting here, knowing he was to be bombarded with questions. He'd watched so many confessions from behind the two-way mirror. Heck, he'd even interviewed suspects once or twice. Now he would be the one confessing.

Shawn settled into the nearest chair. He massaged the light red band around his wrists and wondered if Lassie had purposely made the cuffs tighter than necessary.

Minutes past. There wasn't much to look at. Just a few signs he'd seen a hundred times before. After rereading them twice, Shawn's eyes began to close. Exhaustion poured over him, making his limbs feel heavy and his back sore. His arms formed a pillow on the cold table, but it was useless. Sleep would not come easily.

Soon enough he'd be able to share his story with Vick. He'd face her with the truth and she would either forgive him or hate him. Until then, there was nothing left to do but wait.

Waiting meant thinking.

Thinking about everything that had gone wrong.

About where he had failed.

How he should have solved the case on time.

The one case he needed to solve.

The one case he solved too late.

The case never truly solved.

He waited.

And thought.

And waited some more.

Ghostbusters was every bit the good movie he remembered. It was too bad Lassie had arrested him before he could finish the marathon. Maybe he'd be able to see it in jail?

The Stay Puft marshmallow man would forever and always be the most awesome villain ever.

Did Jules like Ghostbusters?

She was flustered.

His shoulders hurt.

She was hurting, too.

He was the cause.

She didn't understand.

No one understood.

He hated waiting.

The pain in his shoulders was nothing compared to the pain he carried with him.

He glanced up at the two-way mirror, wondering if Vick was done talking to Lassie yet. Maybe she was watching him. Maybe they all were.

He imagined her waiting.

Wanting to know the truth.

Trying to find the right words to say to him.

To understand.

He wanted her to understand.

Words were hollow.

Words were all he had.

Maybe there was pineapple in prison.

Hopefully their pineapple upside-down cake was better than his.

Oh, and smoothies.

He needed the pineapple smoothie to stay strong.

Pineapple loved him.

Even if he didn't deserve her love.

He'd choose pineapple over mango any day.

He'd choose the truth over the lies.

**TBC**

**Chapter End Notes:**

Slow build, I know, but next chapter should pick up the pace. Thank you so much to everyone reading, and extra big thanks and cookies to those reviewing. It makes this dark story easier to write.


	5. Walking toward the Edge

**HIM**

"I went to the station today."

_You promised me you would._

"It was all set up exactly as we planned. Marcus was there and he turned down the alley just like we expected. It was perfect."

_Yet you ran away._

"I had to. I didn't mean to be seen. I didn't know they'd be there. I didn't want to risk the mission so I had to go. I had to leave."

_Colin was counting on you._

He didn't really hear her voice so much as he felt her presence. The passing winds carried her embrace, and the gray sky bore her sorrow.

"I'll go back tomorrow. It will be better. Safer. I don't want any mistakes. Not like last time."

_At least she understands your pain._

He imagined his wife in the blue dress he had bought her for Christmas. Sometimes she smiled lightly at him, her ghostly hand caressing his disheveled hair. Other times, her stone glare pierced through his heart, insisting he complete his mission.

"I didn't want to hurt the girl. I never wanted it to end like that. _He _gave me no choice."

_It was his fault._

"Exactly. _He's_ to blame. They all are."

_Then make them feel our pain._

Gently he caressed the petals of a black rose, allowing his thumb to trace down the vine and across a thorn. Blood dripped from his pricked finger to the stone below, where thousands of crimson stains bore witness to his daily routine.

The pain lingered for a brief moment, filling him with renewed energy and resolve.

"Tomorrow, love. Tomorrow everything will be better. I promise you that they will feel what we felt. I'll make them understand."

**Shawn**

_A singing cat told him to check Lassie's ear, so Shawn swung forward. Lassie tried to swat him away, but Shawn was too quick and soon a quarter appeared in his hand._

"_Oh, please, is anyone buying this trick?" Lassie demanded._

"_Well, where else would the quarter have come from?" the chief asked, smiling as she tangoed with her husband._

"_It is very convincing," Jules supplied, sipping her mango smoothie with delight._

_Behind her, Henry scowled. "What does any of this have to do with me wearing a ballerina outfit?" he demanded. The pink frill skirt over his usual Hawaiian shirt and slacks was perhaps disturbing but definitely amusing._

"_And now, for my next trick, I shall solve the case everyone has been dying to know the answer to. Wait fooooor it…"_

_The chief stopped dancing as everyone took their seats before the stage. Gus donned a top hat and stepped into the spotlight. He removed a magic wand from his cape and began waving it as though he were conducting an orchestra._

"_Presenting, the amazing Shawn Spencer!"_

_The room burst into applause._

_Shawn jumped forward, twirling once before proclaiming, "It was Professor Plum in the Study with a 9mm Glock model 22 hand gun with a full mesh metal grip purple handle. He was motivated by a sordid love affair involving pineapple and mango."_

"_That's impossible," Lassie cut in. "He's a liar. He's a fraud. And just for the record, I in no way think of him as a friend."_

_The chief tilted her head with a large, Brady-Bunch-smile. "You solved the case again, Mr. Spencer."_

"_I always do."_

A hand fell on his shoulder. The dream faded, making way to the cold reality of the interrogation room.

"When's the last time you slept?" The chief asked calmly as she walked to the other end of the table.

He wasn't the type to wake up right away. Normally he stayed in bed a good hour after waking up, just because he could and because it felt nice. It always took a few minutes to move from dream haze to the real world.

This time was different. The dream disappeared to nothing in a blink as he mind quickly focused on his surroundings. "Just now."

"And before that?"

"Does it matter?"

He hated her misplaced concern. She was hurting and it was his fault, and yet she had the audacity to be worried about him.

"I thought about calling you a lawyer despite the fact you haven't asked for one yet. I decided against it. Just so we're clear, you shouldn't ask for one. Not yet."

"I wasn't planning to." His gaze narrowed as he tried to read through her mask. His overactive mind counted the number of rights she was violating in one statement. It wasn't like the chief, but then again, it wasn't like Shawn to turn himself in. Things were different now.

"I don't need you to protect me."

"Maybe you do. I'll reserve judgment until I hear what you have to say. I'm not ready to throw you to the wolves yet, Mr. Spencer. No matter how badly you want to go."

He held back a bitter scoff. He didn't want her breaking the laws for him. He didn't want her calm reserve or her protection. He just wanted to talk. He just needed her to understand.

Still, she was the chief and the victim. As such, she held all the cards. If these were the parameters she set for the conversation then he had little choice.

He glanced toward the one-way mirror. "Is anyone watching?"

"No. I've made sure we're alone. You can speak freely."

"Good."

He wondered about her cool disguise. He suspected her conversation with Lassie hadn't lasted long at all. Rather she'd probably watching from the other side of the mirror, trying to collect her thoughts and her emotions until her mask was firmly in place.

"You should know that you're not officially under arrest, but that may change at any moment. Our talk is off the record and will not leave this room. Once I hear you out, I'll determine how best to proceed. Either way, this conversation never happened. Understood?"

"Yeah."

His hands glistened with sweat. His heart quickened with each beat. He'd imagined this encounter a thousand times before, and now, finally, it was happening. The only question left was where to begin.

The chief shifted in her seat, tapping at two manila envelopes on the table. He recognized them immediately as the Iris case file that she shouldn't have access to, and his service jacket as a private contractor for the police department. Both were stuffed beyond capacity.

"You have information regarding my daughter's case?" the chief asked, allowing an ounce of desperation to penetrate her mask.

Shawn nodded solemnly. "Yeah. Nothing useful, but I think you should hear this."

"Why now? Why not two months ago?"

There was no easy answer for that. He was a coward, really. The chief held him in high regard and he knew all his credibility would falter when she finally understood how he worked. He should have been able to save Iris.

"I don't know," he finally replied.

The chief drew in a deep breath, preparing herself for what he had to say. Until now, she'd been stalling. Whether stalling out of fear or anger or maybe both, he wasn't certain, but definitely stalling.

"You came here to talk. I'm listening."

Shawn stared at his hands, wondering why the lump in his throat refused to let any words escape. No longer comfortable sitting down, he sprang to his feet and began to pace. Where to begin? How could he help her to see what he saw without crushing her in the process?

Why did she need to know again?

Suddenly he wasn't clear on the details anymore. Maybe she was better off not knowing.

He closed his eyes, picturing the world the way it had been.

Thirty-six hours had passed since Iris was taken from them. There were no suspects and no leads. The job was done too well, as though the mastermind had stalked Iris for some time, knowing where she played, knowing who took care of her, knowing when she was left vulnerable. He knew everything about her, and they knew nothing of him.

Shawn rubbed his eyes before drowning his eighth cup of coffee. Two feet away, two officers argued over a missing donut. Tensions continued their upward trend all around the station. No one had slept since the incident.

As the victim's mother, the chief wasn't officially part of the investigation, but that didn't stop everyone involved from giving her constant updates. Not that there was much to update her on. Nothing was still nothing no matter how many ways you packaged it.

Shawn watched as she paced her office. Her hair frizzed in multiple directions. Her pained countenance said everything there was to say. A foot away, her husband stared blankly at her wall, not once moving since Shawn had started his observations.

He knocked softly before entering. Quickly she hid the tears creeping down her cheek and held her head high. She didn't need to put on a front, certainly not around those that cared for her, but he understood why she tried.

"Mr. Spencer."

Silently she begged him for information but all he had to offer was coffee. She took the cup with a gracious nod, but his gut sank. He should be able to solve this. He should be able to make this right. Yet in the last twenty-four hours he'd found nothing, seen nothing of use, and had experienced no big revelations.

"I expected you to have a vision by now." Her words acted as a sharp knife piercing through his heart. He didn't doubt she meant them to be accusatory as much as he didn't doubt that she bore him no ill will. She was terrified and his _spirits_ were nowhere to be found.

"They don't work like that," he finally replied, knowing he'd used that excuse a thousand times. Never before had words seemed so hollow.

"No, of course they don't."

He turned to leave, stopping just short of the door. He searched his memory for anything to give her anything that would give her more hope. A thousand times, he considered the playground and the evidence and still he came up blank. "I'm sorry." It was a confession of sorts, but he wasn't sure what he was confessing. His lack of skills. His lack of spirits?

"You've solved every other case I handed you. Why not this one?"

He flinched slightly at the words, but inside he was shaking. She was right. He couldn't fail. Not now. Not on this case. He turned toward her again, finally facing the sorrow in her gaze. "I'll solve this. I promise you; I _will _bring her home. Trust me."

He tossed back the memory, recognizing it for the poison it was. Watching the chief across the interrogation table, Shawn realized he was visually trembling. She'd been in the room that day, there was no reason to explain how desperate he'd been to help her, how he never should've made a promise he'd known he couldn't keep. Or had he thought himself God, above mere mortals and with nothing beyond his abilities?

Minutes past, still he told her nothing. She waited patiently, her arms crossed neatly on the table. She watched him bounce from one end of the room to the other as though he were a caged animal desperate to escape. She didn't press him, as though she knew he needed to find the words, to gather himself before he could speak. It was very motherly of her, he realized, his gut wrenching. He'd never understood emotions making someone physically sick before this.

Swallowing back bile, he leaned against the interrogation room walls and closed his eyes once more. "Gus has a problem with pens. He hates ball points and detests most gels. In fact, there's only one brand of pen that Gus actually likes. He orders about fifty every single month. They come in these little boxes and if I dare to open one, or borrow one of those pens, you can bet that Gus will be angry with me for at least a month."

The Chief nodded, but he could sense her patience waning.

Quickening his speech, he continued, "Believe me, I learned the hard way. He's very good at holding a grudge, especially when it comes to his favorite writing implement. I've often said he should check himself into rehab to fight the addiction, but you know how addicts are, they never can admit when they have a problem."

"If this is a metaphor for something, I really don't want to hear it. Just tell me what you came here to say." The chief blinked twice, fighting back the frustration roaring from beneath her calm mask. He was dragging this out, making it harder for her to keep control, but somehow this was necessary. The words didn't want to come. He couldn't force them.

Dropping his gaze, he drew a deep breath. "No. Not a metaphor. Not really."

He paced again, retracing his steps in careful repetition, making sure to step in exactly the same place as he had on each previous lap. His father taught him to do this as a memory exercise, but Shawn had long since adapted it for meditation purposes.

"Please, continue," she prodded.

Breathing deeply, Shawn returned to his memories.

After his ill made promise, Shawn returned to the crime scene, driven by desperation. He had to solve this. There had to be something everyone was missing. Why was Iris taken? How had the bad guy done it? How did he cover his tracks? What key mistake did he make? There was always a mistake; Shawn just had to find it.

There were thirty-three kids in the park that day, but only twenty-nine parents and caretakers. A young boy with auburn hair and a slightly askew left eye was coming down the slide just as Shawn sat on a nearby wooden bench. There were a thousand details he committed to memory each second. Somewhere in those thousand details was the answer. He could feel it was still there, just waiting for him to find it.

Shawn was no stranger to this bench. He'd contemplated case after case here while watching all the activity around him. He sat here when he needed to be alone and yet be around people. The bench and Shawn bonded during such moments, and surely, if he sat here long enough, he'd find the missing puzzle piece.

There were many inscriptions on this poor bench. Apparently P&J were in love forever but P&Q were just good friends. Some geek had left a terrible math joke (Now you can have your pi and e it too) that Shawn didn't fully understand, nor did he care to try. The far left corner saw the most action with a total of fifteen different inscriptions all hastily scrawled around each other.

Except now there were sixteen.

Shawn thought back. He'd sat on this bench just one day before Iris's disappearance. There were definitely fifteen at that time. He'd sat on it again the day forensics combed the park for evidence. He closed his eyes and thought back. Sixteen. There were sixteen.

In and of itself, there was little reason to believe this clue would lead back to Iris. Everyday someone was writing something new and hundreds of people traveled through the park each hour. Yet it was the only clue he had to follow and he recognized the tiny inscription. He'd seen it so many times before.

Shawn didn't believe in coincidences just as much as he didn't believe in spirits.

His thoughts returned to the interrogation room where the grieving mother and friend anxiously waited for answers. She knew the major parts: How someone had probably hired kidnappers to take her daughter, but had yet to make any demands. How Shawn had sent the police to the wrong place, only to call back later with the right location. How the kidnappers were found less than a day later, killed in a terrible car accident. How no one ever found the mastermind but strongly suspected one existed.

There were a thousand other details he could share with her, but only one that mattered.

"I solved the case." He returned to pacing, his sleeve at his mouth while he forced the words to escape.

The floodgates opened. Words poured out at an alarming rate. "I found a clue in the park. I should have noticed it long before I did, but I didn't. When I realized what I'd seen, separating the details from one to the other just as I've always done, I knew where I'd find her.

"Every bad guy makes a mistake. Some of them are just careless. Some can't stop themselves. Our kidnapper was OCD. He put this symbol on everything from park benches to packages he sent out. He couldn't not write it everywhere he went. His compulsion gave me the information I needed.

"So I followed the clue. I was so close but I made two key mistakes."

He paused, desperate to look anywhere but at the chief. His chest threatened to suffocate him and he willed it to stop closing in on itself, but the room was tight and the words were poison.

"Go on," the chief prodded, her voice breaking.

"I was followed."

"By whom?"

"I don't know. I never saw them. If I'd seen them, I'd know. I keep going back again and again and trying to figure it out, but I always come up empty. I have no idea who it was but somehow I was followed. It's the only answer that makes any sense."

Breathe in. Breathe out. In and out. This wasn't about him. This was about the truth.

The chief shivered slightly. Anyone who didn't already know her place in the investigation would have believed she was a detective just waiting for an answer. Still, Shawn saw her small fidgets and the way she hardly blinked. He saw the small pool of water collecting at the edge of her left eye.

Still, she spoke calmly. "And your second mistake?"

"The label was slightly off."

Shawn leaned against the nearest wall, burying his head within open palms. He'd prepared this speech many times over since the incident, but it came out broken and scattered. If he could calm himself, maybe he could tell it clearly?

Every moment he kept the chief waiting was another moment she had to lose her calm. She needed that calm as much as he needed his humor. So he gave up on finding the words and just let them flow.

"The box comes in every month. The label has a specialized symbol with a curvy Z sitting on a lowercase w. I'd spent so much time looking at the package, but I only needed a second. I remember everything I see. _Everything_. Picture perfect detail. If something is off, I know it. I can sense it, feel it and see it. I can always figure out why."

Unable to take standing much longer, Shawn slipped back into his chair. He forced himself to look at the chief and not the surrounding walls. She was the one he had come here to talk to and it was time he faced her properly.

"I found a clue at the park. The symbol from Gus's box of pens was on a bench. It hadn't been there before, but it was there the day Iris was taken. Somehow I knew this was the answer and if I could find the company than I would be able to help her, so I ran to the Psych office and I grabbed the box. I sent all of you to that address because I knew she'd be there. My gut was screaming that I had it right, even if I had little to go on. There wasn't time to cross my t's and dot my i's. Any lead was a good lead."

Shawn blinked away the thought, trying to find some way this was not his fault when it so clearly was. He loved talking. He talked to deflect. He talked to joke. He talked because he liked the sound of his own voice. But not today. Today words were his enemy.

"There was nothing there when we arrived," she prompted.

Shawn nodded, gathering his courage. "Exactly. The label was off. It was just a fraction of an inch but I should have noticed. I notice everything."

"Someone had messed with the label?"

"When you called eighteen minutes later saying nothing was there, I realized my mistake. There was still one old box remaining and the address wasn't far away. I could get there before any of you could, so I took off running. By now, Gus had caught up with me and he was busily trying to figure out what I had discovered. I had him call you to meet me, but it was too late.

"Someone must have followed me. Someone who figured out how I worked and he figured out I was close to a break. He used the fake label to buy him just enough time to clean up his mess."

He quickly brushed away an escaped tear before it reached his cheek. Across him, the chief stared, not moving, not talking. She froze as she allowed the words to sink in.

Rather than face the silence, he continued talking.

"I find clues. I research them and then I send you where to go once I've found the answer. With Iris, I held nothing back. I gave you everything I had, even when it wasn't much of anything. Yet when I saw that clue, I didn't. I ran to the office to get the address as though that were the most logical thing to do. I didn't call you. I didn't have Lassie run the info through the database to make sure the information was correct, instead I sent you to the wrong place. If it weren't for...If..."

He straightened up, forcing a deep breath from his tightened chest. "What I do is a lie. I see everything, I interpret, and then share my conclusions with you in the form of visions. Sure, it's a con, but it's worked for every case you gave me. Just not the one that mattered."

It was getting harder to breathe. How long had he been followed without knowing it? Had the bad guy panicked when he realized what Shawn knew? Was that why Iris died? The questions never ceased to haunt him.

He wanted to comfort her or at least to say 'I'm sorry'. Instead, he said nothing at all, allowing the silence to hover between them. He longed to know what she was thinking, but he couldn't even look at her. It was just too much.

**TBC**

* * *

wow, that was the hardest chapter I ever wrote in my entire life...Anyone still reading?


	6. Reaction and Inaction

Thanks to texasartchick for some of the legal advice. Thanks to Koli for the beta.**  
**

**Gus**

When it came to Shawn, Henry reacted. The often calm, reserved man, could turn ten shades of red when dealing with his son. Even when Henry's countenance was seemingly calm, he was often hiding worry or frustration. Gus had come to recognize each of these emotions in their varying states, and had learned when to step in and when to run.

Over the past few years, the shouting matches between father and son had finally subsided . Now Henry's reactions usually involved worry in the guise of anger or casual curiosity.

In fact, hospital personnel were as familiar with Henry as they were with Shawn. Whenever Shawn did something stupid to land himself in the Emergency Room, there was always a noticeable groan from the employees. Where an injured Shawn Spencer lay, an irate Henry was sure to follow.

The station may not have been a hospital, but inside Shawn was self-destructing. As Gus ate his lunch, staring anxiously at the ticking clock, he thought back to Shawn in handcuffs led by an annoyed Lassiter. It had felt surreal and wrong, like a bad dream that kept insisting it was reality. Gus had hoped he would've woken up by now.

Paper and pencil dropped from Henry's hands as he watched his son walk up the station steps. Knuckles turned red then white as Henry gripped the steering wheel. At any moment, Gus knew, Henry would barge into the station and insist they release his imbecile son, completely forgetting himself in the process.

Gus couldn't let that happen.

Cautiously, he cleared his throat. "Mr. Spencer?"

"We're going in." Henry reached for his door handle, but Gus placed a calming hand on his forearm. Henry flinched back—he'd never been much for contact of any kind.

"We can't go in there. Not yet. You do that, and they'll know you knew Shawn wasn't psychic. It will implicate both of us."

"Do you really think I care about that?" Henry scoffed, but his hand remained motionless on the handle.

"It will make it worse for Shawn if we're dragged into this. We need to regroup. Think of a new plan."

This time Henry didn't reply. His head bowed low, coming to rest on the steering wheel. It was the same defeated pose Gus had witnessed all those years ago when Shawn had left. It was as though they were losing Shawn all over again.

Since Henry had yet to leave, Gus still had a chance of holding him back. He'd lose that chance if he didn't find a way to bring back reason.

"There's a cafe down the block. We'll have lunch, wait a couple of hours, then we can go back to the station to give Juliet and Lassiter the license plate of creepy guy. That way we can get information without making it harder for Shawn."

Herny's grip eased. Without saying another word, he turned on the engine. "Two hours. Then we're going in."

Gus pushed away the memory as he sipped on his strawberry shake. One hour and fifty-eight minutes. Both of them were staring anywhere but at the clock, yet there was no doubt each was acutely aware of the time. Their waitress, bless her heart, continued to fill their water and their orders without hinting they were taking up a table in a very full restaurant for a ridiculous amount of time. Gus would have to make sure he left a good tip.

One more minute.

Conversation had long since run out, so Gus tapped the table anxiously with his fingers, watching the patrons come and go.

Thirty seconds.

He wondered how Shawn was faring at the station. Was he in an interrogation room or in a cell? Was one better than the other? Surely, Juliet would be keeping an eye on him. She'd protect him from anything, of this Gus was certain. Then again, he didn't expect Lassiter to arrest Shawn. Maybe six years ago that was a possibility, but Gus liked to think they'd come a long way since then. They were pseudo-partners, really. Even if no one cared to admit it.

Ten seconds.

It was silly really, how they were adhering to the two-hour suggestion as a strict rule. There was no particular reason for this, except maybe to prove a point, to find something to focus on other than Shawn, or maybe just to keep calm. Whatever the case, the moment the second hand reached the top, Henry was on his feet.

Gus left a twenty under the saltshaker then followed in silence. They still didn't have a plan, he realized, but maybe there wasn't much to plan for. Just walk in. Check on Shawn. Walk out.

A small voice in Gus's inner ear snorted. It was never that easy.

**Carlton**

The interview room remained closed. He sat at his desk pretending to work, but in reality he was listening. Listening for the slight creak of the door. Listening for sudden changes in movement. Listening for anything that would break the tension.

An awkward silence continued to consume the station as everyone waited for news. Occasionally a few officers would glance at Carlton, asking a hundred questions with a single gaze. 'Why did you arrest Spencer?' 'Why did the chief not book him?' Most of the glances were accusatory as well, wondering 'What did you do? Don't you know Spencer is one of us?'

Not one of them seemed to remember Spencer had disappeared for two months. He'd chosen to stop being 'one of them.' Not to mention, police officers weren't above the law. None of them were.

Spencer had been pushing them away since the incident. Carlton had been too lost in his own guilt to notice, but now he could clearly recognize abandonment for avoidance.

It didn't add up, not entirely. There was enough guilt to go around without Spencer taking all the credit. Everyone had failed to solve the case on time. _Carlton had failed_. So why was Spencer so insistent on self-destructing?

He thought back to his earlier conversation with Karen. They'd waited silently in her office until O'Hara returned from dealing with Spencer. Karen had never wanted to talk to him alone, he realized. She'd merely saved him from a bad situation. His own feelings over this revelation were mixed. He could have handled it, but he was glad that he didn't have to.

"We need to fix this," Karen said.

"What if he doesn't want our help?" Carlton asked, his hands still shaking from his earlier outburst. The mixture of embarrassment, anger, frustration, and worry made him literally sick to his stomach.

"Then we don't give him a choice," O'Hara cut in, silently daring Carlton to disagree with her.

She should have known better.

The chief eased back into her chair, but Carlton could sense her tension. "We'll have to inform the DA eventually. We won't be able to avoid a review of his previous cases, but I'm confident each conviction will be upheld. Between now and then, we need to hear Mr. Spencer out and determine where to go from there."

Carlton cut in, "We were going to start with criminal mischief for the B&E. Keep us from having to make any formal charges for fraud until we're forced to."

Karen stepped away from her chair, staring out her window to the officers watching them. He half expected her to make a comment about how surprised she was Carlton was trying to protect their wayward psychic. However, she didn't. He wondered how much of that was his own transparency and how much was her professional nature.

Karen straightened her suit jacket, drawing a deep breath as she always did before giving a decision. "At this point, I'm not willing to arrest him at all. We're officially holding him for questioning regarding the B&E. That will give us a little less than 24 hours to come up with a plan."

Despite himself, Carlton groaned. If Spencer wasn't under arrest, that meant paperwork for use of force. Leave it to Spencer to add even more annoyance to his already shot day.

This thought was immediately replaced by his own guilt. The chief was hurting. Spencer was hurting. They all were, and all he could worry about was paperwork.

Paperwork and sleep. Four hours had been nice, but not enough. Definitely not enough for this.

"You have a plan?" he asked, forcing away his fatigue.

"I talk to him."

"I'll call him a lawyer."

He'd meant it as a statement. Surely Spencer's need for a lawyer at this point was unquestioned. So he was surprised to see the chief's mouth for a clear "O".

A moment later, he realized he'd heard her speak. "No."

Carlton froze. Spencer wouldn't ask for a lawyer on his own, not when he wanted to lose himself in the system. As not-really-friends and not-really-partners, it was only fair O'Hara and Carlton saw to Spencer's legal needs.

"Chief..." He began to argue in unison with O'Hara.

"No lawyers. Spencer wants to talk to me, so I'm going to let him talk. I'll hear him out and then I'll decide what's appropriate. That also means no listening."

"I don't--"

"No listening. I don't want anyone on the other side of the mirror. If I find out that someone disobeys me on this, there will be hell to pay. Do I make myself clear?"

It was against every ounce of justice that Carlton believed in. The chief was driven by emotions just as much as Spencer was. By all rights, the case should be handed off to someone else entirely, someone who would make sure the law was followed. He remembered Karen's brief flash of anger when she'd asked if _he_ blamed Spencer. She did. Maybe only a little. Maybe a lot. But the blame was definitely there.

Even with these doubts, he still nodded. She was the chief. She was strong and calculating, a good leader even in the darkest of times. He had to trust her to fix this.

Since then, O'Hara had visited his desk with coffee on no less than five occasions. They waited in the silence, worried for the future, the chief, and Spencer.

Hundreds of times over, he'd questioned his willingness to go with Karen's plan. Each time he reminded himself that she was capable and strong. He could trust her. Still he couldn't stop finding excuses to walk near the hallway and glance at the door.

O'Hara leaned against his desk not saying anything. Already he'd recounted his story to her at least three times, and she'd finally stopped pressing for more details. She'd told him it wasn't his fault. Spencer had forced him to make the arrest. He'd reluctantly agreed in words though not in heart.

Had it really only been a couple of hours since he'd brought Spencer in? Surely a week had passed if not more?

The station's main doors swung open. If possible, the already frozen station tensed further as Henry Spencer wandered casually to the front desk. His hands were in his pocket as he tried to act as nonchalant as possible. As the station clerk handed him a visitor's badge, Spencer Sr.'s glance lingered toward the interview rooms and the few holding cells in that direction.

He knew.

Carlton probably shouldn't have been surprised. Spencer Sr. had been a fine detective in his day, one of the best. Whether or not Spencer Sr. believed his son was psychic, there was no way Spencer Jr. could plan something like this without his father suspecting something was happening.

"You ready for this?" O'Hara asked. She gripped the edge of her desk as though it were a lifeline. It was easier to face a bar full of angry biker gang members than it was to face a worried Spencer. Spencer Sr.'s attempts to act at ease were no more than a ticking time bomb.

The station doors swung open once more, this time revealing Guster. He pretended not to look down the interview room hallway, but failed at acting casual.

The ticking bomb had slowed. Guster and Spencer Sr. together were far less dangerous than just Spencer Sr. Unless Spencer Jr. was in immediate danger. In that case, all bets were off and it was best to dive under your desk and pray there was still a world remaining tomorrow.

Did Spencer's arrest count as danger?

Fighting the urge to flee, because, damn it, he'd faced mob bosses before, he could face these two goons, Carlton stood up. "Mr. Spencer. Mr. Guster. How may we help you today?"

To his surprise, Spencer Sr. didn't demand a cease to the charades. He didn't demand the instant return of his son and an immediate apology. Neither did he so much as mention his son.

Instead he removed a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on Carlton's desk.

XW3598Z Honda Sedan Blue 1994 model. Rusted paint job. No tags on vehicle. Man in early 50s, half-gray, half-brown hair. Long, wrapped in ponytail. Gray shirt with blue peacock logo on pocket.

"What's this?" Carlton asked, handing the paper over for O'Hara to read.

"We were watched through binoculars earlier today. He was also checking out a nearby alley. Freaked out and drove off when he realized we'd seen him. I'm not ready to make an official report, but I thought I'd make you aware of the situation. Something was definitely off."

"You got that right," Gus added. Every three seconds he turned back toward the hallway, his right hand nervously tapping his right pant leg.

"We'll look into it," O'Hara promised.

"Thank you," Spencer Sr. answered, his voice only slightly shaking. He didn't glance back at the hallway, but Carlton knew he was listening just as much as everyone else was.

For seconds they watched each other. None moving or making to leave. McNab passed by on three occasions, each time finding a new excuse to get close and maybe hear their conversation. Carlton didn't call him on the act. He was just glad McNab hadn't tried to take him out back for words. The junior detective was as peaceful and kind as they came, to a fault if truth be told, but he was also very protective of his friends.

It was a well-known fact Carlton had learned from his rookie years: When someone doesn't make eye contact and when they're strangely calm for the situation, there's a strong possibility that person is about to attack. Carlton could see all these signs in Spencer Sr. as they continued to stand in awkward silence. There was little left to do but wait for the explosion.

"We should be going," Guster cut in, clearly seeing the same signs and anxious for an escape.

"Right," Spencer Sr. answered, taking a step back, but then he glanced back at the hallway and his face turned three shades of red. "I'm not an idiot. I know, you" he gesticulated wildly toward Carlton, forcing him to take a step back. "You arrested my son. Now I..."

Before Carlton could formulate a response, O'Hara stepped between him and the angry father. "If my partner arrested Shawn, it was because he had a job to do. As a former police officer, I'm sure you understand."

"You know as well as I do that decisions are made every day to not make an arrest. Just because you can make one, doesn't mean you should."

"And sometimes you have no choice!" Carlton cut in, shaking with anger. Spencer Sr. sounded strangely like the voice in his own head.

Embarrassed at his outburst, Carlton tried to ignore the wandering stares.

Spencer Sr. clenched both fists, but managed a step back, nearly knocking over a panicked Guster in the process. Guster gently whispered something, which sounded strangely like, "Think of Shawn."

Spencer Sr. drew a deep breath, forcing himself to back down. When he could finally speak without shouting, he asked, "Where is he?"

O'Hara replied, "We'll tell you, but you need to stay calm and let us do our jobs. I promise you, we'll protect Shawn as much as he allows us to, if not more, but we can't do that if you're in our way."

Spencer Sr. prepared to argue but Gus cut in, "You'll protect him?"

"You know us, Gus. We'll do everything we can."

"Then it's a deal."

Spencer Sr. glared but did not argue. Much as it pained him, his son's safety and freedom was his foremost concern. If calming down and taking a few deep breaths would help, then Spencer Sr. would do just that. He couldn't do anything else.

"He's in the interview rooms with the chief right now," Carlton supplied, lowering his voice so prying ears couldn't hear. "Right now, he's not under arrest and we're doing everything we can to minimize the charges and the damage."

"We've got this one," O'Hara added. "You just have trust us."

It was then that Carlton heard the creak. It was unique to the door on interview room A, the very sound everyone had been listening for. All heads turned toward the hallway and moments later Karen emerged. Her eyes were red, but she held her head high as though she were leaving an ordinary interrogation.

"Back to work people," she ordered with a steady, commanding voice, before disappearing into her office. A moment later, her blinds slid shut.

Four glances were quickly exchanged, before their owners quickly raced to the interview room.

Spencer sat at the table, his head buried in his curled arms. He was shivering.

"Shawn?" Spencer Sr. shouted, rushing by his son's side.

If Spencer was surprised to see his father, he didn't show it. He continued shivering, not looking up.

Guster raced away for a moment, returning with a light blanket. which he hung over his friend's shoulders.

"Shawn?" he called again.

Slowly, Spencer emerged from his makeshift pillow, and blinked his eyes. He took in the faces of those surrounding him, then quickly straightened. He'd probably been asleep despite having only been left alone for a minute. As he gazed at the unexpected crowd, he flushed with embarrassment. He was searching for a joke to tell to diffuse the situation, Carlton realized, but none ever made it to his lips.

"When's the last time you slept?" Carlton asked, though it was the last question on his mind.

"Been a while," Spencer admitted. His voice was distant, as though lost in a far away dream. At least this morning, when he'd been tearing apart Carlton's house, he'd at least been _trying_ to act like himself.

"C'mon," O'Hara offered, grabbing Shawn's arm and helping him to his feet. "Let's get you go bed."

"You're coming to bed with me? Should get myself arrested more often," Shawn murmured.

Through this interaction, Spencer Sr. remained surprisingly calm, though fury burned in his eyes. There would be hell to pay for whatever had overcome his son, but not until Spencer was situated and Spencer Sr. was satisfied his son was okay.

Perhaps, Carlton wondered, he'd been wrong after all. Maybe trusting Karen to deal with this on her own had been a mistake, especially knowing how much pain she was in. Now he could only wait and see if any damage had been done.

**Juliet**

She feared for her friends. The chief looked half-broken when she'd locked herself in her office. Meanwhile, Shawn barely spoke as he continued down the hall almost as if in a trance.

"Shawn, what happened?" Henry demanded.

When Shawn failed to reply, Henry tried again, "Look at me. Tell me what happened."

"I'm fine, Dad," Shawn replied. "Really."

"Sure you are, Kid. Just like the time you fell out of that tree and broke your arm? I remember you saying you were fine then, too."

"Why are you even here?" Shawn snapped.

They were steps from the cell at this point, so rather than let Henry answer, Juliet turned around. She held put out her right arm to stop them mid-stride. "Go home. I'll call you later, but right now, he needs to sleep."

"We're not leaving," Gus quickly replied.

Beside her, Shawn smiled lightly. "Yeah, c'mon Jules, what good is a cell if you can't share it with family?" As well as she knew Shawn, she wasn't sure how much was bitter sarcasm and how much was just meant to be silly.

Juliet weighed the options. She could easily have Gus and Henry thrown out or she could acquiesce to their simple demands. She was tired. The latter was easy. Besides, she'd chosen the cell near the records room if only for the space around the cells. Plenty of room to sit down and settle even if it was against every regulation in the book.

"You won't accomplish anything by staying here? You know that right?"

"He needs us," Gus quickly replied.

Jules watched Shawn settle onto the cot and knew it was the truth. Much as Shawn was pushing them away, much as she was irritated with him for abandoning them, she could not abandon him. None of them could. He might not want to admit it, but friends were just what he needed.

"Fine. But only for a little while, okay?"

Shawn curled onto the bed with a smile, asking, "Are you going to tuck me in and tell me a story?" The energy was false, but she smiled anyway. At least he was trying to quip.

"I'll be back soon."

"What about a song?" His breathing quickly evened, but he continued mumbling in his sleep. Most of the words were inaudible, but some were all too clear. "Do you think she'll forgive me?"

Juliet bit back on her lower lip. She caressed her hand through his hair and left, leaving the cell open. He wasn't technically under arrest, after all, and it was just better this way.

"Don't bother him. And don't cause any trouble," she warned father and friend.

"We'll be good," Gus assured her.

Heading up the stairs, she took a quick glance back. She'd promised Shawn she'd fix this. She _would_ fix this.

The chief's door stood half-open. Carlton waited just outside, motioning for her to approach. Juliet gathered her courage and followed. Inside, the chief sat at her desk, frantically searching through her daughter's file.

"Chief?" Juliet prodded. She needed to know what happened, but she also had to be sure Karen was okay. At least as close as she could come to okay.

"Take a seat. Both of you. Close the door."

They did as she asked and then waited in the silence as the chief composed herself. The office had never felt so claustrophobic before.

"Chief?" Carlton prodded when two minutes had passed in silence.

The chief blinked twice as though she had traveled to a far off land only to suddenly find herself in her office facing two expectant detectives. She cleared her voice, forcing herself to sit up. "Mr. Spencer had a long story to tell. It will take some time for me to completely understand the details and what to do about them." Her voice wavered as she continued flipping back and forth through the file. Finally she stopped, closing it quickly and pushing it away. She looked up with bloodshot eyes.

"I didn't tell him anything yet. I should have responded or made a decision or something, but I didn't. I simply left him there without any response. I..."

Never, in all the time Juliet had known the chief, had she seen her so lost for words. So out of control. Except, of course, for the incident.

"What did he say?" Carlton asked. Juliet kicked him gently, but wondered if a push was what the chief really needed.

The chief blinked, quickly coming back to herself and raising her chin parallel to the floor. "You will have a chance to hear Mr. Spencer's story when the time is right. For now, I want each of you to start pulling all the cases he's worked on. The DA's office will want reports from both of you regarding Mr. Spencer's involvement with the department."

"We're still protecting him, right?" Juliet asked.

There was a hesitant pause in which the chief tapped the case file, glanced out her window, and breathed deeply. At last, she nodded sharply, as though she'd never stopped to ponder the question. "Of course."

"And you? Is there anything we can--"

"That will be all, Detectives. We'll talk more later."

Juliet stood to leave just as someone knocked on the door.

Buzz emerged, clearing his throat. "Sorry to interrupt, but I saw the plate and description on Detective O'Hara's desk and thought I'd run it for her," he explained quickly, his gaze darting across the room. He wanted nothing more than to run away, Juliet realized. "It was previously flagged in the system so I did some quick research to find out why."

Before waiting for an invitation, he placed the file on the chief's desk. "You should, uh, brace yourself, but you definitely want to see this." Then he bolted from the room, as though afraid the chief would shoot the messenger.

Upon reading the document, the chief immediately paled. For a moment, Juliet wondered if Karen had stopped breathing. A moment later, her chest began to rise and fall quickly—too quickly.

"Who gave you the plate number and description?" the chief demanded.

"Henry Spencer. Why?"

"Get him here now." Her voice was filled with false calm. The type of calm that hid rage and panic or maybe both.

"I'm on it." Carlton didn't waste a second. He sprung from his seat and darted out the door.

"What is it?" Juliet asked, watching the chief carefully. She'd thought the room was claustrophobic before, but now it was impossibly tight. She had to remind herself to breathe.

"Do you believe in coincidences?"

"No. Not usually. Why?"

"Because I think I just solved the case." the chief whispered calmly. Then with a wavering, broken voice, she added, "I know who killed my daughter."

TBC

* * *

Thanks to everyone who reviewed and let me know they were reading! You're all awesome.


	7. What is past is present

**HIM**

The red truck was back outside the police station. He'd expected the fraud's father to go home without reporting the incident. He'd followed him for a while, after all. He followed all of them. It was what he did, what he trained to do.

He knew Henry Spencer. He knew Henry liked to fight his own battles.

Maybe he'd been wrong.

He'd chosen to wait, but waiting was dangerous. He didn't want to mess this up. But this wasn't part of the plan. He needed a new plan. Something better.

Something that would work.

Ten years of planning and waiting. Ten years of laying low and pausing for the perfect moment and the perfect strike, and still he was winging everything. It was so very _him_ and so very frustrating.

Following the curvy ocean-side road, he pondered his options. He'd chosen that woman's car for a reason, knowing Vick would recognize it and would understand why this had happened to her, but she couldn't understand too quickly. Not yet. Not until he had Marcus. Not until his son was vindicated and his wife could rest.

The liars had to pay.

He'd promised.

"_Why not now?" _the wind whispered in his wife's voice.

"It's too risky. We need to wait."

"_We've waited long enough."_

"This has to be done right."

"_Or are you just afraid?"_

"I just don't want any more mistakes."

"_Then act now."_

There were moments when he wanted to stop--to let the past rest. Then he heard her and he understood that he couldn't let it go. He'd spent ten years as a coward, hiding away from what must be done, but no longer.

He'd tried to soften the blow by not killing. Crimson stains never truly washed away from the soul and memory. Even the screams of the guilty penetrated the night.

So he'd kidnapped. Taken what was most precious, knowing it would only be for a while. She wasn't supposed to die. No one was.

"_Everyone pays,"_ the wind said.

No. He hadn't meant for it to happen. It hadn't been his fault.

This time would be different. This time he would succeed.

"_And then we can rest."_

Just not yet. First, he would make them understand.

He found himself by the Santa Barbara Community College Culinary though he didn't mean to drive there, or maybe he had. It was hard to tell intent from circumstance anymore. He flashed back to visions from long ago. He'd come home to find Mara motionless in a pool of red. _They_ had the gall to blame Colin.

Anger flooded his veins.

_They_ were liars. Liars and frauds that strangled and mangled the truth until there was nothing but lies.

Lies.

Pain.

He had to make them understand.

Make them stop.

**The DA**

Samuel L. Dawson finished his first year as district attorney of the county of Santa Barbara wishing he'd never taken the job. Sure, it looked nice from the outside: Comfortable leather chairs in giant offices with the honor and respect that came with a title of position. In reality, the workload was even greater than he'd experienced as a deputy district attorney, and the politics had a habit of haunting every move he decided to make. Looking back on all the years he'd pushed for this position, he wondered what it was all for.

To keep the people safe? To keep law and order in a state where little existed? Or merely to hide from himself.

Sam suspected much of his motivation came from the latter, but somehow that never made the campaign slogans.

He leaned back in his chair, thinking just how uncomfortable an executive office actually was. Leather, as it turned out, was awful and sticky in the heat. Since Santa Barbara tended to stay hot, it was a poor choice of upholstery. Thus every day that he was stuck in his office he found himself wishing he were somewhere else, anywhere else.

On his desk sat a small 4X6 photo in an oak frame. Along bottom edge, and curling hastily into the right side, was an inscription in faded green crayon: We love you, Dad.

Sam smiled at the picture. Marcus was only seven years old at the time and he was so happy to be holding his dad's hand. Beside them, Evelyn gave one of her celebrity smiles. She looked so beautiful.

Many years had passed since the photo, but he still loved her dearly.

Love didn't matter, however; he understood that now. Too many missed lunches and dinners and soon all the love in the world wasn't a big enough bandage to fix things. At least they still talked once or twice every year. It helped him pretend that she still cared.

Sam placed the photograph back on the desk as he listened to the clock count each second. Any moment now Chief Vick would call and he'd be forced from reverie to work. He wondered briefly how she was doing. She'd sounded strong on the phone, but Vick always managed to keep her personal life and her work life separate. Maybe that was why she was still married and he wasn't.

Still, the loss of a child…Sam worked with painful cases every day, but they very rarely reached home. He may have worked himself out of a marriage, but at least he knew his family was alive and well. They survived, even if that survival was without him. He couldn't imagine losing that.

When the phone finally rang, Sam jumped. He'd almost acclimated to the silence.

Unlike the previous call when Vick had announced a situation regarding a police consultant, Vick's voice verbally trembled when she spoke. He'd never been able to read her well, not even on the few occasions when they'd worked together some years past. She rarely let her emotions interfere with her work. So when he heard her voice break, he realized something new had happened. Something very bad.

"What is it, Karen?" he asked, skipping any preamble.

"_Ruth Lamberti's car was spotted outside the station."_

He froze, feeling the color drain from his face as the room suddenly dropped ten degrees. Pieces clicked together as the past collided head on with the present. His right index finger caressed a small scar on his cheekbone.

"I'm on my way now," he assured her, reaching for his jacket and racing out of the room. The phone cord pulled him back and he silently chided himself for forgetting it was in his hand. Placing it back in the holder he drew a deep breath and left once more.

Ten years was a long time, but it wasn't long enough to escape nightmares that were better left forgotten.

He thought back to the night ten years ago when Ruth had disappeared.

The_ psychic_ worked as a private consultant for the police department on a number of cases. She'd been hired to find a serial killer that had claimed nine lives in nine days, including the perpetrator's own mother. Ruth's senses from a torn cloth led them to Colin Forray, but it was Detective Vick that witnessed Colin's final attempts and made the arrest. As a deputy district attorney, it was Sam's job to make sure the man stayed in prison.

He remembered the night before the trial all too well.

It was well past 5 p.m., but he stayed in his office slaving over paperwork. The building wasn't completely deserted, but the fifth floor was empty. Just another hour and he'd go home to Evelyn and Marcus and dinner. At least that's what he told himself. Part of him knew he'd work through the night.

He heard a soft creak before something warm and soft constricted his breathing. It took him a moment to realize someone's gloved hand was wrapped around his nose and mouth. An arm wrapped around his neck, pushing him into his assailant. A cold sensation brushed against his cheek. He felt the blade break skin as a warm stream of blood trickled down his jaw and onto his neck.

It was implausible anyone could get past security, yet there Sam was, trying very hard to breathe and not to move as his assailant dragged him backward.

"You have the wrong man," a gravelly voice told him.

Sam tried to answer, but the glove muffled any response.

"The police are liars. The psychic's a fraud. Don't be one of _them_. _They _will pay."

Colored dots formed around Sam's vision as he felt the room constrict in on him. It was impossible to breathe through the man's immense grip. He barely felt himself hit the floor just as he barely noticed the colored dots disappear as black took over.

They never found his attacker, but there was never any doubt to his identity. The already crazed father had lost his wife and son, throwing him over a deep end few men could escape unscathed. It didn't help that he was well trained in covert ops, discharged from the military for severe pathological issues.

Even knowing the man he was facing, Sam was never one to back down based on threats. The next morning, he waltzed right into the courtroom and gave the best opening argument of his career. Daddy Psycho didn't make another sound until after the trial.

The night of his victory, he received a call from Ruth's phone. He'd only talked to her the few times she'd been called to testify on a case, and there was no reason for her to have his number. It was 3 am and he'd fallen asleep on his desk. He pulled sticky papers from his face and answered.

"Hello?"

Despite what the caller ID may have claimed, it was not Ruth that answered. _"You're one of them," _the voice spat.

"Who is this?"

"_You will pay."_

When he reported the incident, he discovered both Judge Morris and Detective Vick had received similar calls. They searched for weeks, but the trail was cold. There was no sign of Ruth or the father.

Ten years. Sam was sure it had all ended in empty threats. What kind of criminal waits ten years to make his move? What kind of man stayed hidden for that long? Maybe it wasn't him at all and Ruth's car showing up two months after Vick's child was murdered was just a coincidence. Or maybe there was no such thing as coincidences.

As he hurried to the station, he quickly dialed Marcus's cell phone. Five rings later it went straight to voice mail. Not that Sam was surprised. It was midday so Marcus was either in classes or goofing off with his friends. Sam left a quick message, ordering Marcus to call him immediately, but he knew his son would simply delete the message.

The station seemed impossibly far though it was only a few blocks away. Sam knew Vick would have already made the appropriate calls before she'd even called him. He just had to trust that the police department could get to his son first. Maybe Marcus wasn't even in danger. Maybe Sam was overreacting. Maybe none of it was connected.

Sam prayed this was the case, but he didn't hold out much hope.

**Karen**

The present was rarely free of the past.

Her father taught her this at a young age, but Karen failed to understand the depth of this wisdom until now. There was an emptiness inside of her that was difficult to ignore. Sometimes working made it better. Sometimes working made it worse. Sometimes she wanted nothing more than to cease existing. Sometimes she needed nothing more than to live.

The last few months had changed her in ways she had yet to understand. It was easier not to contemplate these things. It was easier just to continue.

"You just keep going," her mother had told her. "Even when you're not sure you can, you hold your head high, you walk out that door, and you keep living. It takes courage and strength, but I know you, and I know you can face anything the world brings your way."

Her mother and father were both wise. She'd grown up filled with love and assurance and life. Her daughter would have done the same.

She wanted to hide and cry, until all the hurt poured out of her and she was never forced to feel again. Would her mother consider that cowardice?

Karen forced herself to breathe as she told the detectives her story of days long ago. How she'd once befriended a psychic that occasionally worked with the department. She smelled of lavender and garlic and wore ornate jewelry.

Unlike Shawn Spencer, Ruth Lamberti had few visions. They were usually sparked by a piece of clothing or a location, and they were always vague, and only sometimes useful. The department only brought her in when nothing else would work, hoping that maybe, just maybe, she'd find the clue they needed.

After Ruth had cracked the Forray case, they'd gone out to celebrate. It was the last night she'd seen Ruth and also the night she'd gotten the call.

She'd never imagined that call would culminate in her daughter's death, yet it looked like that was exactly what had happened. Gregory Forray was a genius with frightening abilities and an warped mind. Though she'd been part of the task force to hunt him down, they never did find him. Would her daughter still be alive if she'd never given up trying?

She trembled, forcing tears back from her eyes. She'd cried enough for one day.

She remembered Spencer's explanation and his guilt. At first, she had to admit that she did blame him. She still _wanted _to blame him. It was easier to put a face with the pain, but Spencer was a brilliant man and a caring individual. It did her no good to see him self-destruct.

Only now did Spencer's story sink in. If he was to blame for his mistakes, then she was to blame for hers. Or maybe it all came down to one crazed man that had spun their lives out of control.

Her mother would say have courage. She'd expect Karen to protect Shawn as furiously as she would protect a close friend or a family member. Her mother would be right.

Mr. Forray. Just the thought of his name made her sick.

It had been so long since she'd thought of him. It was a haunted voice from the past cackling at her. Wishing her to feel more pain when she'd already felt all she could bear. It took a million people to keep the world turning, and just one to tilt it off axis.

As she finished her tale, the room remained silent. O'Hara and Lassiter watched her with concern, and she could practically see the wheels turning their thoughts. In the corner, Henry stood with crossed arms. He'd just retired by the time of the Forray murders, but he'd met Karen before she'd made chief. As such, he knew her in a way O'Hara and Lassiter never could. His calculating gaze washed over her, reading through the words and straight to her pain.

"This was the man you saw?" Karen asked, pushing an old newspaper toward him. Already, two thirds of the departments was combing the streets for Mr. Forray and Ruth's car. If the past was any indicator, nothing would be found.

"Same general face structure. Same eyes. It's him." He passed the photograph to Gus.

It was difficult to know what Gus was thinking as he watched events fold in silence. She knew he was loyal to Spencer to the bitter end, and in many ways, Karen appreciated that. True friendship was as precious as family.

He grabbed the paper. "Definitely our guy."

Karen returned the paper to her file as she gathered the strength needed to continue.

"We have a suspect now," O'Hara explained. "That's more than we had yesterday."

Was it better? She had a face to the killer, now, but no more hope that he'd be caught.

"The DA will be here any moment. If Mr. Forray was around the station this morning, that means he's probably ready to strike again. I have scouts rounding up Mr. Dawson's and Mr. Morris's family so we can put them in protective custody until we know more. I want to know why he's waited until now and I want to stop him before this goes any further. Is that clear?"

"We'll get him," O'Hara immediately replied.

Beside her, Lassiter cleared his throat. He stood up slowly, forcing himself to catch her eyes, though she could see he wanted to look away. "We got this one, Chief."

It wasn't a dismissal. Not exactly. She was too close to the investigation and he was letting her know this in no uncertain terms. Emotions of all kinds boiled within her, but she held them back, keeping a professional mask. "Of course."

She needed to head the investigation. She needed to know that this time it would be done right. She needed anything but to step down. Yet she walked around her desk and faced her head detective properly. "You catch this son of a bitch. You hear me?"

"Don't worry. We will."

Beside him, O'Hara stood tall, saying everything in her expression that couldn't be said aloud.

"I'm going to talk to Spencer. You'll let me know when the district attorney arrives?"

"Of course."

"I'll go with you," Henry said, pushing himself away from the wall while still watching her carefully.

Karen wanted to argue, but she could see the worry still blazing within him. "Of course," she said calmly, leaving the room with her chin aloft.

Every day it took courage to keep moving and living, but her mother was right. Karen held courage in spades. It was her biggest ally against hardship and her greatest friend in times of need. It was time she shared that courage with Spencer.

After all, they were in this together now. They would both need courage if they were to track down Forray.

**TBC**

* * *

So I know this had a lot of secondary characters, but at least I tried Karen's view. I hope you "enjoyed" this chapter anyway. :)


	8. Moving Forward

**Gus**

In an instant, Vick transformed. One moment she seemed empty and broken, trying hard to hide behind a professional mask, and the next she was striding through the station as a strong, determined woman on a mission.

He followed silently, wondering how much more Shawn had told Vick. Gus kept flashing back to that night when Shawn explained how Iris's death was partially his fault, and Gus couldn't quiet the voice in his own mind that said maybe it was his as well. Only Gus had decided to live with this fact, not knowing any other details, while Shawn continued to spiral downward.

They raced past the desks and the people, ignoring any wayward stares or curiosity. Ahead, Vick stormed down the stairs and straight to Shawn's cell, Henry and Gus working to keep up.

"Mr. Spencer."

He wondered how much sleep Shawn had managed since the incident and knew it was cruel to wake an insomniac finally finding rest, but Gus stood back and allowed Vick to do her thing. He felt not unlike a voyeur as he watched a conversation he was never meant to be a part of, and yet he knew he was right where he needed to be. Somewhere out there Forray readied to strike. If the police couldn't find him, they would need Shawn.

As a team, Shawn and Gus held each other together no matter what. Though Gus had failed his friend on many levels the last few months, he would not fail him here. He would make Shawn get up and face the world and the case. Judging by Vick's determined stare and Henry's clenched fists, Gus wouldn't be the only one.

"Mr. Spencer," Vick called again when Shawn failed to stir. She waltzed into the cell, only taking a moment to glance curiously at the open door.

Strands of hair stuck out of the blanket before a hand pushed them back. Green eyes peeked out watching Vick and her entourage in a half-daze.

"Chief?" Shawn replied mid-yawn. He sat up on the bed, rubbing tired eyes. A second later, he jolted straight up as though he were in a courtroom waiting for a verdict.

"I've always assumed you were the type to not give up easily. You're about to prove me right."

Shawn tilted his head left, gazing tiredly at his companions. Silently, he looked to Gus for answers, but Gus stayed back. For now he was merely an observer, allowing his friend's fate to fall in the hands of another.

Seeing he would get no response, Shawn stood up, leaning casually against the gray wall. "I..." he opened his mouth three times, clearly desperate to find an accurate response.

"We need your help," Vick explained. "Certain evidence has come to light regarding my daughter's case and we now have a good idea of who killed her and why."

Vick's voice only wavered slightly at the mention of Iris. Instead, she focused on Shawn, holding her back straight and her head high. She would not accept no for an answer. Not without a fight.

Shawn fell back into the wall. He blinked twice, processing her words while still waking up. "You say you already know who it was?"

"That's right."

"Then why do you need me? Sounds like you're doing just fine on your own." A harsh coldness laced Shawn's response. Gus felt Shawn's hurt as much as he could _see_ it and cursed himself for ever letting things get this bad.

Vick, however, refused to let Shawn use his pain to deflect. Instead she turned his own words against him, hitting back with honesty instead of pain. "Because you're the best detective I've ever known and he's about to strike again."

When Shawn pushed away from the wall, Gus thought his friend would do what he always did: help. He expected Shawn to walk out of the cell with a false smile and maybe even a joke, ready to prove to the world that Shawn Spencer was so much more than he seemed. It was what Shawn did--what both of them had been doing for all these years now.

Only Shawn didn't walk out of the cell. He sank back on the bunk, burying his head within trembling hands. "No."

"No?" Vick replied, this time her voice broke slightly. Clearly she had expected as much of him as Gus had.

Meanwhile, Henry stepped forward, jaw dropped and ready to yell. Gus held out a hand, holding Henry back, shaking his head slowly. This wasn't their fight.

Shawn punched the mattress once before stopping himself and taking a deep breath. In a low, bitter voice, he replied, "Didn't you listen to me?" He glared at Vick, forgetting about the rest of his audience. "I'm not psychic. I'm a fraud. I'm the reason your daughter is dead!"

He'd shouted it loud enough so the busy station upstairs would overhear. Vick flinched but would not be deterred. She stepped forward, taking a seat on the cot.

"No. You're not."

"I told you--"

"You did. I heard every word you said, but I also know more than you do. It may come as a shock, but you are not perfect. You never will be. There are always risks and there are always mistakes. But if you are guilty, then so am I, for much more than you will ever realize. Would you like to look me in the eye and tell me that's the case?"

Gus wasn't sure what reaction to expect from Shawn after such a display. In fact, Gus wasn't even sure how _Gus_ was reacting. He just stared with wide eyes as though watching two cars collide while he looked on helpless.

Gus definitely didn't expect Shawn to laugh. It started as a scoff but transformed swiftly into a manic chuckle.

"You don't get it. You just don't get it."

"I do," Henry replied, pushing past Gus's steadying hand, but keeping his voice low. "That man fooled you. He was smarter than you. He broke you in ways you don't understand and if you agree to help, you're afraid you'll fail all over again and someone else might die."

Shawn stared at his father as though seeing him for the first time. At first, he looked ready to yell, but instead he brushed his hands past his face and through his hair. "It's not like that," he whispered.

"Yeah it is, kid." Henry's voice slowly ascended as he held on to one of the bars. "You're right. You might mess up. Someone might die. But if we don't track this guy down, he _will _kill again. You can stop him. You don't have to let him win."

"He's right." Though fear and hurt noticeably wavered in her usually strong voice, Vick spoke calmly in contrast to Henry's shout. She held up her own hand, letting her companions know that she could handle this on her own. "We need you. _I_ need you. That's not something you can just walk away from."

They were getting through to him. It might not have been apparent to anyone else, but Gus knew Shawn. He saw the way Shawn's shoulders slackened, or the quick glance he gave Gus for help, even as he responded, "If you'd told me we were going to be in an afternoon special, I would have actually shaved this morning."

Gus stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Just hear us out, Shawn. You can do this."

Had anyone else said it, Shawn would have continued straddling the fence. Gus, however, was not just anyone, and he knew what Shawn needed. He knew the right words and the right tone. Shawn would listen to Gus even when he'd tuned out the rest of the world.

Gus held his breath as he waited to see if Shawn would listen this time. At last, Shawn nodded slowly in understanding, then turned to Vick. "Tell me what you know."

**Carlton**

The moment everyone left Karen's office, Carlton fell into the chair and massaged his temples. Imaginary lights clouded his vision as he tried to think and process the day. Four hours sleep in God knows how long. He hated to admit it, but even adrenaline wouldn't keep him going forever.

A dozen files littered Karen's desk. The Colin Forray murders made up half of them while the rest were reports on the pursuit of Gregory Forray and the investigation of Ruth Lamberti's disappearance.

He flipped through each of them, looking for any details that might have been missed or any information relevant to the case at hand. It was difficult keeping his eyes open long enough to read more than a line at a time and coffee just didn't have enough kick anymore.

"Carlton?" O'Hara spoke with forced calm as she approached his desk. He hadn't even heard her come in. "When's the last time you slept?"

The question of the day.

Carlton forced himself upright, blinking the sleep away from his eyes. He knew of a thousand and two things that needed to be done. He didn't have time for rest. "I need the status on the Morris's and the Dawson's."

He felt her examining gaze as she considered whether or not to push the first question or answer the latter. After a moment of careful thought, she replied, "That's what I came in here to tell you. We can't locate Marcus Dawson. He should have been in cooking class until 4 today, but his instructor says he only showed up for the first half. No answer on cell phones. No one has seen him in the last two hours, but there was fresh blood found near the culinary building."

Carlton's chest tightened as the weight of her words wrapped around him, squeezing like an angry viper. They were too late. The chief had made the calls the moment she saw the plate, but that still gave Forray an hour lead. A lot could happen in an hour.

"Alright. This is officially a kidnapping case. We need to start canvassing the streets for information; see if anyone has seen the car, Forray, or the kid. I want roadblocks--"

"I've already called it in."

It took a second for her words to process. Carlton pushed back from his desk, standing up to meet his partner face to face. He gazed at her, trying to read her intentions, but all he found was concern and determination.

"You already called it in?" he repeated.

"Yes. We have canines searching the woods near Lamberti's old home. If he had her car, he might be using her abandoned house as a hideout."

"You called it in," he whispered. "Why didn't you tell me first?"

O'Hara straightened as she met his gaze. "When's the last time you slept?"

"That's not the point."

"I think it is. You're half asleep even as I'm talking to you. This morning, Shawn said--"

"Spencer's an idiot! We have a manhunt in the works here. This guy killed Iris. The chief could be this creep's next target and I'm in charge."

He didn't mean to yell, but the words came pouring out before he could stop them. He needed to regain some sense of restraint but counting to ten never seemed to work. Forcing calm, he added, "I don't have time for sleep."

She could remove him from the case, he realized. He'd just relieved the chief because she was emotionally compromised, and if O'Hara thought exhaustion compromised his own judgment... Anger swelled within. He was a good cop, damn it.

"Carlton," O'Hara said softly, stepping forward and speaking softly. "If you tell me you can do this. I'll believe you."

He was surprised by the effort required to form such simple words. He thought of the chief and Spencer and just how messed up the day had been and how stupid it was that he could hardly keep his eyes open. Four hours of restless sleep. Too many days without any real rest. He wasn't fit. Deep down, he realized this. Still, how could he step away when the odds were so great?

"I can do this," he finally managed.

"Okay." She wasn't convinced. He could see that. Still, she'd wait until the last possible moment to make him go home, if only because she knew how much he needed this. That's what made her such a loyal partner.

"But..." He hadn't expected to add something, but he continued talking despite himself, the words flowing from somewhere unknown. "Maybe it's best if we did this together."

"Sounds good." O'Hara smiled. Whether from relief or gratitude, Carlton couldn't be certain.

Silence enveloped the room, which only served to heighten Carton's embarrassment. Judging by the way O'Hara shifted; she was equally uncomfortable. She cleared her throat, forcing the silence away.

"The Morris's are all on vacation in Hawaii and apparently Judge Morris has been dead for over three years. I don't think we need to worry about them as victims."

"And the Dawson's?"

"We've located his ex-wife and she's agreed to come to the station. We've sent a black and white to pick her up. ETA 15 minutes. Mr. Dawson arrived a few minutes ago but we're waiting to tell the chief until..." O'Hara shifted slightly, clearing her throat. "She's still talking to Shawn so we're holding off. Most of the department leaders should be at the command center by now."

"Good. Anything from the BOLO?"

"Not yet."

Adrenaline surged through Carlton's veins, though his body longed to collapse. He reached for his jacket, ready to race out of the office. O'Hara took a step left, guarding the door.

"We need to talk about what happened with the chief."

"We don't have the time to waste, O'Hara."

"It'll only take a minute."

"Then say it already. I don't have to remind you the clock is ticking." He massaged his temples, willing his weariness away.

"You and I both know that she won't easily sit on the sidelines."

"Your point?"

"If we're partners in charge, I need to know where you stand. If she tries to walk out that door with Shawn in tow, with the intent of running their own investigation, do you plan to stop them?"

Ever since Karen had left to talk to Spencer, he'd avoided contemplating her motives. Maybe if there weren't many other departments working the case they might have gotten away with it, but not now. Shawn was as good as under arrest and definitely under investigation while Karen was as much a victim as a possible target.

"Officially they can't be involved."

"Unofficially? Just between us?"

Carlton glanced out the office window, watching the buzz as officers scurried about the office. "We need all the help we can get." He paused, hating the next words, but knowing he had to force them out. "Spencer's included."

**Shawn**

It was a little weird, really. Not only had he fallen asleep in a jail cell with his best friend and father creepily watching from afar, but he'd woken up to the chief insisting he suck it up and get back to work.

He'd expected many reactions from her, and though he'd considered this one for a millisecond, he'd quickly brushed it off as impossible. His role in the death of Iris was unforgivable and yet the chief reached out to him, trying to build him up and get him on his feet. It was weird and maybe a bit messed up.

But it was also nice.

He'd always known Gus would stand by him during the darkest of times, but he'd never realized how close everyone else was. From Lassie desperately trying not to arrest him to his own father willing to do anything to get Shawn moving, Shawn realized that he was well past the years of running away. He could push and deflect all that he wanted, but in the end, he had a family that wouldn't let him go. A family that was larger than he'd realized. If ever he tried to run, they would travel to the ends of the earth to bring him home.

Of course it was still weird. The pseudo-intervention may have gotten him listening, but his uncomfortable meter was flashing red alert. Awkward club had apparently reformed.

It also didn't help that exhaustion consumed him. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, allowing adrenaline to keep him in the conscious world.

It didn't take long for Karen to catch him up on recent events, and though Forray's next victim was still unknown, Shawn understood why she was desperate for any help. Even his.

After two months of fruitless searches, she finally had the opportunity to catch the killer. Ten years ago he'd slipped through their fingers, two months ago he'd strolled in, destroyed their lives, and then slipped past once more. She couldn't let another chance pass her by, and she definitely would not sit back and allow another victim to be taken.

As Karen finished her tale, she held open the cell door and beckoned for him to follow. "You do understand that this is not an official hire?"

"Just pay me in coffee and we'll call it even. Lots and lots of coffee." A large yawn muffled his words.

"As long as we're clear. You're still technically under investigation."

Shawn stood up, taking one last glance at his cell. He'd finally told the truth. Maybe the chief understood. Maybe she didn't. At least he'd done what he had to. An immense weight lifted off his shoulders and for the first time in two months he felt free. Tired maybe, but definitely free.

His entourage followed him up the precinct steps. The place had gone crazy since he'd been here last. Officers moved in such a frenzy that it was a miracle none of them tripped over one another. The phones were ringing so fast that as soon as one person returned the receiver, the phone would immediately ring again.

A new figure sat by Lassie's desk, hunched over and staring absently at a cup of coffee.

"I want to speak to Mr. Dawson before we go. Give me one minute," Karen explained before shuffling cautiously toward the man.

Just a few rooms down, Shawn saw officials in various uniforms. Maps aligned the back wall with tacks in various locations. Command centers were so much cooler on television, but were still fairly awesome in real life.

"This way," Shawn told his companions before waltzing past a few frenzied officers and into the room. By the time he reached the command center, only Gus was still in tow.

"Lassie!" Shawn shouted excitedly, quieting the room only for a second before everyone returned to work.

"Go away, Spencer," the detective answered wearily with none of his usual disdain. The frightening black bags under his eyes threatened to consume his entire face and Shawn wondered if Lassie had managed even less sleep in the last two months than he had.

"See, you say go away, but what you really mean is 'Glad to see you.' Don't worry, I'm glad to see you to. Gus here, however, isn't quite so glad. He'd be happier if you gave him chocolate."

"There's chocolate here?" Gus asked. "Where?"

Shawn shrugged. To his right, Jules stepped between Lassie and Shawn. She grabbed his shoulder, directing him away from the crowd. "You can't be here."

He wasn't officially hired. This and the simple fact Karen wasn't in the room with all the other department heads told Shawn one important fact: Karen wasn't officially on the case either.

Shawn wondered just how fast Lassie had jumped into her position but didn't hold it against the detective. They were chasing down the murderer of her daughter, after all. Not even Karen could keep straight the lines between her job and personal life in such a scenario.

In any other situation, he wouldn't even pretend he wasn't working the case, but this time was different. Karen placed her trust in him, willing to go under the radar to investigate a case she should stay as far away from as possible, and she hired him to be part of it despite his recent non-arrest.

"No problem, Jules. I know when I'm not wanted. We'll just have to go find our own chocolate fix elsewhere. Banana chocolate pancakes with real maple syrup and whip cream, perhaps."

"And, no, we don't plan on sharing either," Gus interjected, pretending to look hurt.

As they spoke, Shawn remembered images from the room. The placement of the pins. The picture on the wall of an 18 year-old kid smiling. He saw addresses from tips that had been called in on the car and on Forray.

Below the kid's picture was an information sheet. Marcus Dawson. 18. Father: Samuel Dawson. Mother: Evelyn Dawson. School: Santa Barbara Community College—Culinary

Forray had managed another victim, Shawn realized, his stomach sinking. Already they were a step behind.

"You're supposed to be in a holding cell," Jules remarked, keeping her voice low as she glanced back at the room.

"You left without reading me a story so I couldn't sleep. Ask Gus. I'm simply incapable of sleeping without a riveting tale of adventure where prince and princess live happily ever after."

He turned to Gus for backup, but Gus was busy watching Karen speak to Mr. Dawson. Dawson's pallor could have earned him a role as a ghost. He wrung his hands together as he tapped his feet nervously.

Karen placed her hand on his shoulder. Maybe it was just that she'd been in that situation not too long ago, or maybe it was that they knew each other from days past, but there was definitely a bond forged between the two.

"Shawn," Jules called, snapping back his attention.

"Wha...?"

"Are you okay?"

He thought of symbols and failures, but also of friends and cases to be solved. Scratching the stubble on his chin, he answered, "I'm getting there," because he knew she needed more than a lie.

"Good. I'm going to..." She motioned toward the command center, slipping away without completing her sentence.

"You ready for this?" Gus asked, motioning toward the chief and Dawson while watching his friend with noticeable concern.

"Yeah. It's time we ended this. Smoothies for the road?"

"Pineapple with whip cream?"

"Can any other flavor make your taste buds dance to awesomeness? I think not."

Shawn smiled and Gus smiled back as they exchanged a quick fist bump. Whatever distance had grown between them over the last two months quickly subsided. He could always count on Gus for new beginnings.

The group congregated back near Lassie's desk. At their arrival, Dawson quickly straightened and donned a professional mask, though his fear peaked through.

"Everyone," the chief explained, "this is Mr. Samuel Dawson, district attorney for the county of Santa Barbara. Mr. Dawson, this is everyone. Shawn Spencer, Burton Guster, and Henry Spencer."

"Shawn Spencer? I prosecuted and won a lot of cases based on your results," Sam replied, putting down his cold coffee just long enough to shake hands.

"Glad I could help," Shawn replied slowly. He wanted to promise he'd find Marcus but he kept flashing back to the promise he'd made to Karen and how horribly wrong it had all gone from there. It was too soon for promises.

"Good. Good. Now, skipping all other pleasantries, you should know, I'm coming with you." Sam absently caressed the light scar on his cheek as he stood up with chin aloft.

"Who said we were going anywhere?"

"Karen's not going to let this go. Something tells me you won't either. It's my kid out there. I may not see him as often as I should, but I still love him. I'm not about to sit back either."

There were a thousand reasons not to let him come, and those were only the ones Shawn could immediately come up with off the top of his head. The truth was, however, none of them mattered. One look at the district attorney and Shawn could see the same fire he saw in Karen's eyes everyday. He was as unlikely to back down as she was.

"Dad," Shawn said, deliberately not answering Sam's questions. He motioned to the side and Henry quickly followed.

"Stay here. Pick up what information you can and relay it back to us. Jules and Lassie can't officially, but they'll let you do it."

To Shawn's surprise, Henry didn't even try arguing. He took one glance at Sam and then turned back. "Be careful, Shawn. You have no idea what you might be walking into."

"Don't worry. I'll be back and in my cozy cell in no time. Sooner if they start offering pineapple in the cafeteria."

The clock continued to tick. They'd wasted too much time already, but Shawn still found it difficult to leave. What if he failed again? What if everyone was wrong and he couldn't do this?

_You still have to try._

He knew his inner voice was right. Much as he'd love to hide in a cell for the rest of his life, he couldn't.

"Let's go."

As they left the station, no one tried to stop them. It was as though the whole precinct knew that this had to happen and shouldn't be stopped.

They piled into Karen's car in silence. Shawn glanced back at Sam who was still caressing the scar while watching out the window with haunted eyes. The district attorney. The very man Shawn's future depended on, and here he was in the car with the guy, taking part in an unauthorized investigation. At least Sam looked nice enough. Not at all the leering, judgmental figure Shawn had imagined.

Gus buckled in, shifting nervously. "Where to?"

Shawn thought back to the papers and maps in the command center. Santa Barbara was a large enough city that someone could possibly lose themselves within its borders with enough effort. One of the maps, however, outlined an area just outside the limits. Shawn closed his eyes, picturing the directions, and then relayed them aloud to Gus.

"Ruth's old home," Karen whispered.

"Her car appears for the first time in ten years out of nowhere, with Forray at the helm? Why? Why that car if he's been getting around some other way before this? He chose it for a reason."

"Like a calling card?" Gus asked. "You think he wants us to follow him here?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Probably. All I know is that he knew the car would be recognized."

"So you're having us walk right into a trap?" Gus's knuckles whitened against the steering wheel.

"Please, Gus, I'm not an idiot." Though he had fallen for the last trap. He paused, reorganizing the clues, looking for a different result but none appeared. It could have been that his brain was only running at half speed, but there was no time for second thoughts. "Look, the cops were already there. They had canines go through the woods and didn't find anything."

"Even better. We're walking into a dead end."

He'd made the wrong decision before. He'd allowed Forray to escape. He'd allowed Iris to be killed. He'd been so close...

"No. There's something there. I can feel it."

This time Gus didn't argue. He glanced nervously in his rearview mirror. "Okay, Shawn, you think something's there. I believe you."

"Good."

"Good."

"That's what I just said."

"So I can't say the same thing?"

"Not unless you want to be jinxed."

"Oh, please, you can only jinx someone if they say it at the same time. Those are the rules."

Shawn glanced back, anxious to see the DA's expression at their banter. Some people rolled their eyes. Some people got angry. Others laughed. Sam did none of the above. He continued staring out the window as though he'd never heard them speak. Beside him Karen was equally distracted, though he knew she'd been listening in case anything important was said.

Minutes later, they arrived.

Police lines covered the forest area, but one glance at the chief and no one tried to stop them from entering. Most of the police and dogs had left to search other areas of interest, but a few remained, looking for clues.

Tall trees surrounded a small house. There were noticeable holes in the roof, even from the outside. Other parts of the roof caved inward. The rest of the house hadn't fared much better. Moss covered the door and sides. Vines crawled up the siding.

They spread out in groups of two. Gus and Shawn going one direction while Sam and Karen went another. The car led them there, but to find what?

The floorboards creaked as Shawn entered the house. Cobwebs and dust had long since taken residence. Beads and dried flowers covered the walls. Candles that had long since burned out decorated each counter.

"You know how I feel about creepy houses, Shawn," Gus complained but there was little fear in his voice. He was just trying to act normal, Shawn realized, without really feeling it. Normal could only come after time.

There was a single box on the table, its cobwebs separated from the rest. It too was covered in dust, but there was a small smudge of fresh dirt on the hatch. Shawn doubted anyone else would have noticed it, but to him it was a giant red calling flag. Judging by the cleared dust around the box, it was a recent addition.

"Dude, check this out."

A large, black spider crawled over the box, scurrying across the table and toward the wall. Gus jumped back, but Shawn beckoned him forward.

Carved into the top of the box were three symbols. One of them mocked him from a distant time. A curvy z sat on top of a lowercase w. The curves were different, only made to resemble the one Shawn had found on the park bench but definitely drawn by a different guy.

"Is that...?" Gus asked, coming closer.

Shawn opened the box slowly. Two items sat in the felt lining. A white piece of plaster, probably broken from a wall, and a note.

_KV SD SS _

The SS was in a slightly different pen color, crammed into the side. It wasn't part of the original note.

"Karen Vick, Samuel Dawson, Shawn Spencer. He's calling you three out," Gus reasoned as he read over his friend's shoulder, trying desperately to stay away from the walls and the spiders hidden within them.

"More than that. He's telling us to come alone."

"You know where he's at?"

Shawn held the plaster in his hand, considering its shape and color. He'd stared at that same shape some months ago.

"Yeah," Shawn whispered. "He's at Psych."

Or what once was Psych. The office had been closed for a few days now.

"But why would he do that?" Gus asked. "Why would he tell you how to find him?"

Shawn's hand trembled as he replaced the piece in the box. He'd always prided himself on understanding people and their motives. He was more than just a photographic memory. He was a detective. He could put it all together, wrapped in a neat little package.

Forray wanted to do the same. One last hoorah to end all hoorahs.

"He's ready to end this."

Shawn moved toward the exit but Gus held him back. "You think it's a trap?"

"Yeah. Definitely a trap."

"He plans to kill you. That's why he wants you to go alone?"

"Probably, but if we don't go we lose all hope of rescuing Marcus. Trust me, Gus, I think I understand this guy. He kills when he panics. The only way we'll have any chance is if we meet him face to face and go from there."

Gus didn't step out of Shawn's way. He stood there, staring at the box as though it would explode at any moment.

"I'm coming with you."

"You can't. We'll drop you off a few blocks away, but he can't see you with us."

"Shawn."

"Gus."

They stared at one another, lost in another silent battle. Shawn took a step back. "Let me do this."

Gus hesitated before stepping aside, but he eventually nodded. "You sure you know what you're doing?"

"Gus, please, this is me. When do I ever know what I'm doing?"

They met up with Sam and Karen just a few steps from the car. Shawn and Gus took turns explaining what they'd found and their interpretation of the clues. As they each looked at the carvings on the box, Shawn noticed the change in both of their expressions. Sam recognized the top left while Karen recognized both the symbol from the pens and the one on the bottom right. Neither chose to share this information with the rest.

Karen read the note, and then glanced up. "I can't ask you to come with us," she told him.

Shawn considered his initials on the page and how they'd been added after the fact. For whatever reason, Forray had figured out Shawn wouldn't leave the case alone, and now it was as much Shawn's fight as it was Sam and Vick's.

"You don't have to. He already did," Shawn replied, jumping into the passenger seat.

He finished every case with style and a great big bow. It was one of his favorite parts of Psych, taking the pieces and fitting them back together for everyone to see. He'd never been able to do that with Iris's case, but now he had a second chance. Though he wasn't sure how this case would end, at least it looked like it finally would. For better or worse, it was time to finish this.

**TBC**


	9. Everything Burns

So sorry this took so long. I went on vacation and had a string of terrible headaches that just made writing impossible.

* * *

**HIM**

It was all falling apart. Ten years of working and trying and planning and somehow, somewhere lost in all of this, he'd failed...again.

It was burning hot in the abandoned office without any air conditioning to make it bearable. It would get hotter when tendrils of hot flame consumed the walls.

That was plan B. He wasn't exactly clear on plan A.

Talk.

Make them confess.

Make Marcus hear what a corrupt bastard his father was.

Make the chief admit her sins to her fraudulent psychic.

He needed them to profess the truth so that they might be judged rightly.

_And then they will burn._

Except that was plan B.

_Everyone must pay, my dear._

The daughter was never meant to die.

_Of course not._

Plan B is fire. Plan A is truth.

_Don't fret, my love. Colin will be pleased and so will I._

She watched him as he doused the walls with gasoline. The fumes overwhelmed his senses despite the cloth held firmly against his mouth. He coughed violently, fighting the urge to run away. From behind the closet door he heard Marcus struggling, mumbling.

He sounded so much like the girl.

_The sins of the father._

His wife's voice made him shiver. Once, long ago, it had only brought him comfort, but since her death, she'd changed. The image of her was as beautiful as ever, but the presence and anger was different.

It wasn't her.

_Colin needs you._

Or maybe it was.

He could never be sure anymore.

He caressed his finger, admiring the red circle where the thorn had drawn blood just that morning. He couldn't quit now.

Soon all would be over.

Soon all would be purified.

He caressed the gun in his hand. All it would take was one bullet to end this. Instead, he slipped against the wall, ignoring the wet against his back.

"When they arrive," he instructed through the closed door, "you will remain quiet. Or your dad will be the first to die. You understand?"

Everything was in place. All he had to do now was wait.

At last, after ten years of cowardice, his vengeance would be complete.

...

**Gus**

He was in the way. Of the three people in the car, he was one of the few that had not been called out for the end game. So many times before he'd been there for Shawn, but now all he could do was step aside and trust that Shawn could solve this without him.

He closed the car door, ignoring Shawn's wave goodbye. His heart pounded faster and faster with each step that he took away from the car.

What fate was he leaving them to? Could Shawn really handle this right now?

Gus thought back to when they were teenagers.

Shawn was caught kissing Paul Kershaw's girlfriend in the parking lot of the school. The jock called Shawn out insisting they meet after classes behind the gym.

Shawn had made some joke about this not being the old west which quickly degraded into questions on why twenty paces. Wasn't ten just as good?

Paul loomed over them with a dangerous stare Gus wouldn't soon forget.

"Come alone, Spencer," Paul warned.

After the thickheaded giant stalked off, Gus turned toward Shawn.

"You can't seriously be considering facing that guy."

Shawn mocked a dignified pose. "It's a matter of honor, Gus. You know how it is. Honor begets charming and charming begets girls. Lots of girls. You lose honor; you lose it all."

"Was it honorable when you kissed his girlfriend?"

"Relax, Gus. I've got a plan."

If there was one thing Gus had learned it was that any plan of Shawn's would be fun, dangerous, and incredibly stupid.

That afternoon Gus found himself watching Shawn through a nearby window.

When Paul shoved Shawn into the brick wall, it was clear Shawn's plan had failed.

Gus couldn't hear what they were saying, but he found himself running toward the fight. By the time he arrived, Shawn had a puffy eye where a shiner was bound to thicken over the next few hours. Paul's fist was up for another strike, but Gus grabbed it. A moment later, he too was flung backward.

Gus didn't know what he expected to accomplish by showing up to the fight, but he did relearn two important things: 1) Shawn's plans didn't always work and 2) Gus needed to be there when said plans failed.

Looking back on that day so many years ago, Gus couldn't help but shiver. It was rule #235 of their friendship: Never plunge into danger without your best friend by your side. He knew that this was the most important rule of all.

He stared at the empty street where the car had once been. He knew Shawn was right. If Forray got one glance of someone else with the party, there was no telling what he'd do.

_He kills when he panics._

Gus hadn't put that together until Shawn had explained it to everyone.

Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed his phone and dialed Henry.

"He's at Psych," Gus explained. "Shawn says to keep the cops far away or Forray won't hesitate to kill everyone in the building."

**Henry**

He didn't want to stay behind. Watching Shawn and the others leave the station required every bit of restraint he had. Shawn was right, though. Not only did they need a liaison between the police and Shawn, but without his direct help, Henry was needed.

One pair of Spencer eyes out in the field and the other pair in the station. This Forray nut job wouldn't know what hit him.

As soon as Shawn and the others left, Henry had stepped silently into the command center. No one questioned his presence, possibly because half of them recognized him from his time on the force.

Lassiter took all of fifteen seconds to look at him but then did nothing to send him away. The tension between detective and father shuffled quietly to the corner, but Henry knew it was just waiting for the right catalyst.

Phones continued to ring nonstop as officers raced through the station.

He'd been there over an hour now, listening and watching as new information flooded their walls. 90% of their tips were useless. There were a million places Forray was not and a lot of faulty leads. That still left a million places Forray could be and no verified sign of him from anyone.

"Get to 8th and Pearl, now!" Lassiter yelled toward a nearby officer who quickly shuffled away. He made a large red circle on a nearby map.

Of everyone in the station, it was clear that three were more worried than any other, not including himself.

O'Hara kept nervously rubbing her arms as she constantly shuffled through files, desperate to find any information.

McNab paled every time he glanced at the clock.

Lassiter mostly glared and yelled, but the black bags under his eyes told a different story. Henry wondered just how long until the detective completely collapsed from both physical and mental exhaustion.

"Detective!" The shout came from a stout woman manning one of the incessant phones. All three of the detectives turned around, but it was O'Hara who raced up to the woman. They spoke in whispers as the officer covered the speaker on the phone.

O'Hara paled, catching herself on the desk as though to keep from falling.

"What have you got?" Lassiter raced quickly to the table with a few others in tow. For a moment the room was silent. Unease consumed them as they realized this call was different. Somehow, this lead would pan out.

"We found Lamberti's car. An eye witness placed him at the scene earlier today," O'Hara replied, quickly coming back to herself. "36th and Willamette. Have SWAT meet us there!"

Henry bolted out of the station along with Lassiter and O'Hara. As they reached Lassiter's car, the detective swung around, ready to demand what Henry thought he was doing. His gaze narrowed.

"I'm coming with you," Henry told them. He sidestepped Lassiter and headed toward the Crown Vic.

"Just stay out of our way."

Henry had to hand it to the detective. There was no need for explanations on why Henry had to come or why he'd stuck around the station, just a general acceptance that this was where Henry needed to be. It was as Shawn said, they couldn't relay information to Shawn, but Henry could. Lassiter and O'Hara knew this.

He watched as SWAT surrounded the building, prepared for the stealth attack. Beside him, Lassiter and O'Hara drew their weapons.

Already a new tip had come in. A man matching Forray's description had been seen entering the business building adjacent to this lot. By all appearances, they had him.

Henry knew appearances were deceiving.

"This is too easy," Lassiter whispered to his partner, echoing Henry's own thoughts.

His phone vibrated, the short window displaying Gus's name.

"What have you got?" Henry asked, not bothering with hello. There would be time for common courtesy later. Preferably when this nut job was well behind bars.

"_He's at Psych," _Gus replied, apparently just as willing to throw courtesy out the window.

Henry nearly dropped the phone as realization hit. As SWAT continued toward the building and the car, Henry imagined what traps might be triggered. "Stop them!"

He didn't shout, but his voice was nevertheless strong enough to make Lassiter and O'Hara turn around. They each held up a hand toward the large blue vehicle, motioning for the teams to stop.

"I told you not to interfere," Lassiter yelled, swinging around in anger.

Henry moved closer to the detectives, knowing if anyone else in charge heard the right location they'd insist on marching to the Psych office.

_He kills when he panics._

Even without Gus's explanation, Henry could have guessed that was how Forray worked.

The important thing was to keep everyone away and let Shawn and Karen resolve this. Though it was against every fatherly bone in his body, Henry knew he had to keep everyone else back.

It was the only way any of them could survive.

"He's at Psych. He needs us to stay back," he whispered as they moved toward the SWAT vehicle.

O'Hara and Lassiter exchanged wary stares that needed no translation: If Shawn had been fooled before, how could they be sure he wasn't fooled now?

"This is a trap," O'Hara whispered, noticing how close they were to the entrance. Henry couldn't help but wonder what was waiting for them beyond the entrance. Explosives? Maybe. Nothing? Also possible.

Seconds became minutes as Lassiter and Jules explained the situation to the SWAT leaders. Sacrificing stealth, SWAT would bring out the bomb sniffing dogs and other equipment to check the area.

Only if this wasn't the trap and Psych was...

Henry reminded himself to breathe as he thought of Forray and Shawn and bombs. He had to get to the Psych office.

Yet somewhere deep down, he knew it didn't matter. For all of their resources and for all of their sleepless nights, Henry, Gus and the police were merely bystanders in the fight against Forray. Back at the Psych office, where Shawn, Vick, and the DA were undoubtedly walking into a trap, was the real fight.

There was nothing anyone else could do until it was over.

**Karen**

She readied her weapon as they moved toward the entrance, wondering what lay ahead of them. The sidearm felt heavy and cold in her trembling hand. It offered little comfort. Forray would be expecting her to arrive armed and he'd have a plan to keep the upper hand.

"_I wanted you to see what real courage was instead of thinking courage is a man with a gun in his hand." _

Karen would never forget the first time she'd read those words. Her mother had given her To Kill A Mockingbird for her college graduation and highlighted a single passage.

"Whenever you're afraid just read these words and you'll find the strength you need," her mother had told her.

If ever there was a time for strength, this was it.

Driven by her daughter's memory and the fact the killer lay just feet away beyond the Psych doors, Karen took cautious steps forward while silently reciting the rest of the passage.

_Courage is when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and you see it through. You rarely win but sometimes you do._

Sometimes you do.

Already Karen had lost twice against Forray, but no longer. She would see this through.

She would fight him.

She would win.

Beside her, Spencer pointed toward the Psych window. A shadow betrayed Forray's presence, but there was no sign of Marcus.

A step away, Sam stared into the window desperately seeking his son. His frightening pallor grew whiter by the second.

It was a risk taking him. As a father, he'd do anything to get his son back. He'd endanger them all if he had to.

She'd have done the same.

Months only helped her hide the pain from others but never from herself. Given a time machine, she wouldn't hesitate to go back and do anything, _anything, _to have her daughter back.

She'd have to settle for making this bastard pay.

"Ready for this?" Spencer questioned softly. All traces of humor were void from his expression. It struck her just how much older two months had made him.

She nodded softly, turning to Sam who was too busy staring through the window to reply.

She barely registered the turning of the door handle or the slight squeak as the wooden door creaked open. She'd entered this place a hundred times before, each time knowing she was in charge and calling the shots. But now the game was Forray's and she was a pawn lost in the struggle.

No. She would not allow herself such a role.

She would be in charge.

Forray leaned against the nearby wall. "We're so glad you were able to come," he told them. "We were afraid you wouldn't get our message."

Gasoline fumes assaulted her senses. Her eyes watered and her throat scratched, but still she entered the office followed by Spencer and Sam.

Forray leaned against the far wall.

Fury raced within her, screaming inside her gut and mind as she faced the man that had torn her life into shreds.

His eyes darted between his three victims and to the walls, refusing to stay focused on any one place. She realized that in his mind, they posed him no threat. He aimed his firearm at the floor and smiled casually but she could sense his nervousness.

"We?" she asked.

"I...we...I," he stuttered He took a step to the left as though to avoid some unseen obstacle.

Spencer and Sam remained quiet during this exchange. Karen knew Spencer was searching the room for clues as he watched them converse, but usually he talked as he sleuthed. Forray had set him up perfectly for a retort, but Spencer hadn't risen to the bait.

His silence unsettled her. Spencer never failed to quip.

She glanced down at Spencer's fists, noting his white knuckles.

"Where is he?" Karen asked, refocusing her attention on Forray. Despite the gasoline fumes she kept her weapon steady and aimed at Forray's chest. She couldn't risk a shot ricocheting and causing a spark, but there was no way she'd let her guard down.

"He's here."

"Marcus!" Sam yelled, glancing around him. He raced forward only to bump into Spencer's outstretched arm.

Sam glared at the human blockade but did not push by. "My son is here," he muttered through gritted teeth.

"I know," Spencer answered calmly, his pain refusing to hide behind a mask. "We're going to help him." Keeping his arm raised, Spencer turned toward Forray. "What do you want?"

Finally registering that a hundred traps could lie in the small office, Sam faced Forray, pleading, "Leave my son out of this. Please."

Karen bit back a sob.

"What do we want?" Forray asked with a bitter chuckle. He lifted the revolver to his other hand, caressing it gently with his palm. He glanced toward his side, watching the thin air as though someone was standing beside him.

Forray scoffed, shaking his head madly. "Really, and here I was told you could read people so well, Mr. Spencer. All those talents of yours and yet in the end you're still just a fraud. Just like Lamberti."

Spencer flinched slightly at the reproach but answered calmly, "You killed her."

"Spencer!" Karen chided. Negotiations were thin enough without further accusations.

"It's true, though, isn't it?" Spencer pressed. "You killed Lamberti. Just like you killed Iris."

Karen shivered at her daughter's name. She wanted anything to pull that trigger and watch Forray fall. Forget the courts.

Only she couldn't. She couldn't risk Marcus's life and she couldn't risk justice.

It didn't matter how much vengeance called to her.

Color drained from Forray's face at Spencer's words. He glanced back at the thin air, pleading with it to help him. _We._ He kept saying 'we'.

"Shut up!" Forray yelled, raising the barrel toward Spencer's chest.

"Let me guess." It was time for the traditional Spencer Psych pose, fingers to the head as he winced at false whispering spirits. Thankfully, Spencer forewent the acting and instead slowly raised his hands in the air. "You didn't mean to kill them, did you?"

"It was never the plan. I didn't want to. They made me. You made us!" The revolver trembled in Forray's hand.

While Karen knew her own gun would fail to ignite the vapor, a revolver might do the trick. If he pulled the trigger, rescuing Marcus might prove impossible.

She searched the room knowing there were only so many hiding places. The bathroom, the adjacent room, and a closet were the only likely suspects.

"I got too close?" Spencer prodded, receiving a quick nod from Forray.

"You would have lied again and blamed me but it wasn't me. It was you. It was her. Not me. I don't kill."

_Her. _She knew Spencer noticed the slip up as well, though he showed no outward sign.

Tears streamed down Forray's cheek. The revolver moved slowly to the floor but then quickly flung back, this time aiming at Karen. "But she kills."

Karen's heart jumped at the movement but she held her own weapon steady.

"Whoa," Spencer called. Moving slowly toward her with his palms still held outward, level with his head. "It's okay. I get it."

"No you don't," Forray scoffed, flames dancing in his manic gaze.

"I do. She blamed your son, right? Colin. She told lies about him?"

Forray nodded. "She did. She accused him of...terrible...terrible...But my son. He was good and innocent. He'd never...never...and then that psychic...that fraud..."

"They took your son from you."

It was getting hard to breathe. Fumes swarmed the room, but it was fear and anger that overwhelmed her.

She wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger and watch him slump to the floor in a puddle of crimson.

Of course the moment she tried the place could light on fire and any chance of saving Marcus would quickly disappear in the smoke. It didn't stop her from dreaming and thinking about it which consciously kept herself from acting on the fantasy.

"You're all frauds!" Forray yelled. "All of you!" He fell further against the wall, chuckling madly. "All of you."

"Okay, I'm a fraud. I admit it. I don't hear spirits and I don't see the future," Spencer prodded in his calm voice he reserved for the most dangerous of situations. She'd heard him talk down other gunmen before with that same demeanor, but somehow she knew it wouldn't work on Forray.

"But," Spencer continued, "We did come here to talk to you. That's what you wanted, right? We came alone."

Karen longed to join back in the conversation, to demand answers, but instead she remained frozen, watching as though she were nothing more than a passerby.

Forray drew a deep breath but only succeeded in gagging from the fumes.

"We're listening." Spencer took his final step toward Karen, blocking the distance between Karen and Forray, making sure neither of them had a shot.

She wanted to yell at him to move out of her way, but the words stopped short. Maybe it was better if she couldn't act.

She glanced back at Sam who remained frozen, staring at the bathroom wall as tears caressed his cheek. She was amazed that he had yet to spring into action, willing to save his son at the sacrifice of others.

She could only imagine how much strength it was taking him to keep from doing so.

"I want the truth," Forray finally answered, his voice coarse and muffled through the cloth. "I want you to admit what you did."

"And then what?" Karen asked.

Forray paused, glancing to the thin air, clearly not knowing the answer to that question.

"What does she say?" Spencer took another step forward. "Or won't she tell you?"

"Killing is Plan B. I don't...I don't want to."

The revolver lowered slightly.

Given the right chance, Spencer or Sam were in position to tackle the madman, but again, it was too risky.

"So what's plan A?" Sam blinked, pulling his stare from the door and onto Forray. "What would you do with my son?"

"There isn't a plan A, is there?" Spencer pressed. "There never was but she doesn't want you to know that."

"She wouldn't lie to me!" Forray screamed. "You! You are the fraud. Not her. She was innocent! Innocent!"

"But she scares you? Doesn't she?"

Much to Karen's surprise, Forray nodded.

Forray's wife, Karen realized. Spencer wasn't a real psychic, he'd admitted this to her though she'd known the truth long before. However, that didn't mean Spencer wasn't special.

He understood people and he deduced better than any detective she had ever seen.

Forray was seeing his wife. That was why he kept talking to the air. That was why he kept glancing beside himself.

For a brief moment she felt pity, realizing that he'd been through pain as well. Pity fled quickly enough, though, as she considered her daughter and the fact that this bastard had killed her.

Suffering pain didn't give anyone the right to inflict it on others.

Spencer took a single step forward, reaching for the revolver. "You don't have to do this."

Forray glanced down at the open hand and back at the weapon in his hand. "I waited ten years for this," he said. "I can't turn back now."

"You don't have a plan."

"I do! Of course we do. She said to bring you here. To bring you here and to have you ready and then it would be clear. I believe her."

"Please," Sam replied, shaking violently as he bit back on his lower lip. "Please. My son..."

"You don't have to do this," Shawn repeated, continuing to hold his hand out.

Forray didn't relinquish his weapon, but he did move back against the wall

"He's in there," he said, motioning toward the closet.

Without pause, Sam lept forward. "Marcus!" He pulled at the closet door but it didn't open.

"Where's the key?" Spencer spoke calmly but Karen could see his fear. Sweat on the brow. Eyes wide as the grand canyon.

"I don't know," Forray laughed. "Don't you have yours?"

Spencer flinched.

This wasn't Psych anymore.

For the first time, Karen could hear the boy mumbling form the other side and it broke her heart.

As Spencer moved to help Sam, she realized that she had her shot. She did not lower her weapon but kept it trained on Forray as her finger trembled against the trigger. If she didn't miss him then the vapor wouldn't ignite.

Forray stared back in turn, his wide haunted eyes expressing ten years of terror.

She didn't act.

Sam pounded on the door as Shawn came to his side. It wouldn't take long to open the door. Minutes and this would be over and Forray would be processed, gone from her life for forever.

The fumes made her dizzy. It was getting hard to think or breathe. They needed to leave, but still she stood there, training her weapon on him. Courage forcing her to keep from killing.

From becoming like him.

"Shut up!" Forray suddenly yelled though no one was talking.

He was answering his wife, she realized. The hallucination was still there, driving him to madness and action.

"Spencer!" Karen warned. There wasn't much time.

"I have to," Forray whispered, his gaze strangely distant.

Fear made way to anger and anger made way to determination.

He smiled.

She registered the movement right before the vapor ignited. Flames swallowed the floor around her.

Smoke assaulted her lungs. Through watery eyes she watched him run to the side.

She tried to pull the trigger, but it didn't respond.

The gun dropped from her hand.

She was only vaguely aware of the closet door crashing to the floor.

It hurt to cough. Breathing was torture.

She fell toward the floor, pressing her left hand against her crimson stained side. She'd been shot.

Strong arms reached for her, pulling her back up.

"I got you," Spencer whispered.

Her feet failed to move as he dragged her away from the flames. It was strange how her side didn't hurt, and even her lungs seemed to stop complaining. Darkness fluttered before her eyes.

She wondered briefly about Forray. She couldn't let him escape again.

He'd only come back.

She struggled from Spencer's grasp, but he continued pulling her past the flames and toward the door. She hardly noticed the falling debris or the passing time, but she did feel the first breeze brush against her hair.

It was hard to see the sun for the black smoke. She fell into the grass, gasping for breath.

Violent coughs ripped from her lungs. Pain returned, coursing through her body.

She needed to stay awake. To be sure Forray was caught.

But pain beget blackness and blackness seemed so much better than pain.

**TBC**

**

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**Anyone still reading on this site? I know it took a while to update.**  
**


	10. New Beginnings

It's been a while, but here it is at last. The conclusion. Thank you to everyone who stuck through the story. Extra big thanks to those who commented. I hope you've enjoyed the ride.

* * *

**HIM**

This wasn't the plan.

He held his revolver steady, staring at the liars and the fraud. He could hear the fraud's words and knew somehow he spoke truth.

But frauds didn't understand truth. They only told lies.

_Colin needs you._

His wife's eyes flashed red. He wanted to step away from her, to run away. The fraud was right: He was terrified of her.

She wasn't the woman he married.

Summoning what strength he could, he motioned toward the closet door.

_Stop!_

There never was a plan A.

_You'll ruin everything. There will be no truth. No vengeance._

Fire was always the plan.

_Kill them! Kill them while you still can!_

He laughed at the fraud for lacking a key. It was all he could do to drown out his wife's voice.

The fraud would ruin everything.

_You must kill them._

Images of his wife, sweet and smiling, flashed through his mind. He remembered holding her corpse, lifting her head from the stained carpet.

_You must!_

"Shut up!"

She wasn't his wife. She never was.

She was HIM.

_You want to do this._

It was a lie. He never wanted death.

The girl had already died.

So much blood.

They'd ripped Colin away from him.

They'd taken everything he was when he'd already lost so much.

What did he care if they died? What did he care if he killed them?

He didn't _want_ to.

Pain and hurt coursed through his body. All he wanted was for them to understand.

_Then do it._

"I have to," he whispered, allowing his finger to pull the trigger before his mind could take over.

The effect was instant. Flames clawed at his soaked back. The room filled with black smoke.

His lungs longed for breath but he welcomed the pain. At last his plan was coming together.

His plan. Not hers.

His wife smiled as blood stained the liar's side.

Unable to bear the flames, he raced away.

Ten years. Ten long years of planning and at last courage had prevailed.

His body burned as he dodged falling debris.

The pain was amazing. So cleansing.

Free of the office, he rolled on the ground, suffocating the flames against his charred skin.

He tried to scream, but his lungs refused the necessary air. In the distance, sirens raced toward him.

Had the liars and frauds escaped? Did it matter?

_Fire purifies._

He glanced toward his wife.

He was her.

She was him.

He wasn't sure how he knew. Maybe he always had. But she wasn't his wife. She never was.

It was him all along.

He shivered, embracing the pain further.

None of this made any sense. So much had gone to plan and yet he wasn't sure anything at all was accomplished.

Maybe it would be best if the pain would take him away forever. Maybe if he waited long enough, it would do just that.

A gun cocked above his head.

"Don't move," a voice commanded.

He laughed as much as his lungs would allow, though horrible coughs continuously interrupted him.

An oxygen mask covered his face.

He tried to swat it away but a firm hand held it in place.

So instead he concentrated on the wonderful pain. Pain was everything.

**Shawn**

There was a sudden pop before the room filled with smoke and flame. A second later, the closet door buckled.

Marcus's eyes were wide with terror as tears poured freely onto his gag. Shawn didn't waste a second. He reached toward the kid to pick him up and free him of this place, but Sam got there first.

He took his son into his arms and raced away, not sparing a glance toward Shawn or Karen.

The lighter fluid was a nasty trap. All along the walls the vapors caught fire. Flames consumed the wood as debris crashed toward the ground. Black smoke made breathing all but impossible.

He turned toward Karen only to see her falling to the floor while holding her side. He lunged by her side, lifting her away from the floor.

She fought him.

He held on tighter, pushing her forward. He'd already lost Iris; he wouldn't lose Karen as well.

He lowered her to the grass outside then collapsed in a fit of coughs. His lungs desperately sought air, but even free of the fire, air was hard to come by. He'd inhaled too much smoke and vapor.

"Shawn!" he heard Gus call.

Someone placed an oxygen mask over his face. Beside him, a group of EMTs surrounded Karen.

"Shawn!" Gus called again, sliding by Shawn's side. "What happened? Are you okay?"

Then Gus's gaze fell on Karen and he froze. "Is she…? Oh God," he turned away from the blood.

The EMTs lifted her on a stretcher, racing her away.

The one EMT caring to Shawn whispered, "She's in good hands. We'll take care of her."

Gus answered, but Shawn didn't make out the words. He was too busy staring at the Psych office, now lost in black smoke and flames.

Gus grew silent as he followed Shawn's gaze. Together they stared as six years of their lives disappeared in fire.

There was a strange finality to it all. It was as though before this there'd always been a chance Psych might come back, even if they'd always known it wouldn't.

Time passed in a strange blur. Shawn had always prided himself on remembering every little detail, but whenever he looked back, he only recalled flashes of events.

He remembered the DA holding his son tight to his chest as the EMTs began to care for them. Marcus was alive. The lone victory in a sea of failures and yet it meant everything.

Marcus was alive.

Shawn also remembered Lassie holding his gun on a charred Forray until Jules came by his side whispered something in his ear and took over. Lassie fell into the grass as he stared at the bad guy in disdain.

Lassie buried his head in his hands and Shawn wondered if at last the detective would find rest.

Shawn also remembered his father standing in silence beside the two friends. Shawn jumped slightly when Henry gently patted his shoulders in comfort before quickly pulling away.

As the fire show drew to a close, Shawn allowed himself to be led to an ambulance. His lungs were screaming as burning coughs continued to seize his body.

The hospital was even more of a blur than the fire.

Everyone waited for news on Karen.

Lassie attempted to sleep on several occasions, but just ended up pacing the room. Every few minutes he would leave to check on Forray as though afraid the madman could somehow escape.

Gus translated the medical speak but otherwise remained silent. There were moments where the two friends would glance at each other as though to start a banter fest. They could talk 80s movies or music or robots but words never seemed to come.

It was the same for all of them. Jules, Henry, and even Shawn waited, never saying much of anything. It was as though some monster had come and stolen all their words.

Even Sam and his wife and Marcus waited with them, though they slept soundly. Their nightmare was over.

Shawn wasn't sure his would ever end.

He wasn't the maudlin type but the last few months were nothing but confusion and hurt. He needed to break free from it. He'd hoped this case would help but now he wondered if it'd only served to break him more.

Rubbing his hands through his hair, he desperately looked to Gus. He said nothing, but Gus smiled weakly back, offering what silent comfort he could.

"I'll be back," Gus announced, watching his friend closely before making for the door.

Moments later, Jules moved by Lassie's side. "You need to sleep."

Lassie turned toward her, blinking multiple times as though he was having a hard time making her out or was seeing something else. People did hallucinate with enough sleep loss, Shawn knew, and he wouldn't put it past the detective to have lost that much rest.

"I let her investigate," he said softly, not bothering to hide his own bitterness.

"It was the right call." Jules shifted, not meeting her partner's distant gaze.

Gus returned with a game board in his hand. Monopoly.

Shawn allowed himself a smile. Lassie's shoulder's slackened. Some years ago they'd played the same game in this room while waiting for news on Jules.

"Just make sure you pay for Boardwalk this time," Lassie said, glaring at Gus and then Shawn.

"How do you not pay for Boardwalk?" Jules asked, as they each moved to help Gus set up the board.*

"It's a long story." Shawn picked up the horse placing it on start.

The last time they'd played, Lassie had jailed Gus's and Shawn's pieces after they refused to play the game correctly.

Jail.

That was where Shawn was supposed to be, right? Not in the hospital waiting for news on Karen, but in jail.

The more he thought about it the more his heart sank. How much could one lose in two months before they completely broke?

As it turned out, Monopoly wasn't a bad idea. It took a few times of passing Go, and they mostly played in silence, but at least they were doing something. Even Henry had joined in, though Shawn wasn't entirely sure why his dad was sticking around.

Shawn couldn't remember who won or didn't win and did anyone ever really win at Monopoly anyway?

He didn't remember the banter. He hardly remembered Lassie nodding off to sleep and Gus taking over his turns.

It wasn't like him not to remember. Maybe he'd simply allowed himself to forget? It was just easier that way. He'd forget the whole two months if he could.

In the end it took days before the doctors were confident Karen would survive without lasting damage. Not physical damage at any rate. The emotional wounds were another story.

Forray was also another matter. He'd breathed the fumes longer. He'd been soaked with the lighter fluid. The resulting damage was severe. Infections tore through his body and on the day that Karen left the hospital, Forray was still in the burn unit.

Much as Shawn hated to admit it, part of him wished Forray would just hurry up and die already, thus ending the worst chapter of his life. The other part of him knew Forray was mentally sick. That part wasn't so sure what it wanted.

Shawn blinked away the memories, turning his focus back to the conference room. He'd been waiting for mere minutes, but it felt like hours. Beside him, Gus and Henry argued about his best options and defense.

"At the very least, you should have a lawyer present." Henry paced the room as though he were the ball in a predictable game of pong.

"Do you think pineapple will ever forgive me for cheating with mango?"

"Shawn, this is serious!"

Beside him Gus held his high. "Your dad's right. What happens today will determine whether or not they press charges."

Shawn leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet on his desk. "You're such a worry wart. It'll be fine. Trust me,"

"I'm not a worry wart. I happen to be a good friend who doesn't want to spend the next few years receiving your fist bumps from behind bars.."

"Worry wart."

"Are not."

"Are too."

"We're not doing this right now, Shawn."

"Only because you know I'm right."

There was a soft thud as Gus's shoe met Shawn's shin. Shawn readied to push back, but the conference room door opened causing all movement to cease.

Lassie entered first. The black bags that once consumed his face were gone now, but his shoulders were still hunched with an unseen burden. He offered an enigmatic glance, which Shawn couldn't decode, before quickly switching to his best detective stern stare.

As he held open the door, Shawn heard a faint squeak. A moment later, Karen. The wheelchair was mostly a precaution until her wounds had enough time to heal.

"Gentlemen." She bowed her head before wheeling herself to the front of the table.

Her expression was softened and genuine. She still masked a world of pain of sorrow, but there was no blame left.

Maybe saving her life had something to do with it? Or maybe it was that Forray was finally captured? Whatever it was, Shawn felt his own burden lighten.

Sam entered next, followed by Jules. She closed the door gently behind her before taking the last seat at the table.

Silence enveloped the room.

Sam smiled at Shawn, nodding kindly.

Shawn wasn't sure how he'd envisioned the DA's role in his case. He'd pictured a looming, stuffy jerk who would stop at nothing to see Shawn charged for his crimes. He'd imagined Jules and Gus jumping to his defense as his friends refused to see him go under.

Even when he'd felt guilty and deserving of prison, he'd always known they'd defend him.

What he hadn't expected was a DA just as willing to go to bat for him. The moment Sam smiled, Shawn knew that was exactly what was happening.

He'd saved Marcus after all.

But then Sam frowned, pulling out a number of case files.

So maybe Sam would go for his throat after all.

"Mr. Spencer. This is an informal meeting. We only wish to gain a deeper understanding of the work you've performed for the police department these last few years."

He was taking this seriously. Really, he was. However, the absurdity of the situation kept gnawing at him and he was never one to sit quietly in meetings. So instead of waiting quietly for fate to kick him, he raised his eyebrows and joked.

"Hushed up meetings. Really? Is this the part where we all pledge our undying love for one another or am I in the wrong movie?"

"There's no such movie, Shawn." To anyone else Gus might have sounded annoyed, but Shawn knew he was helping to relieve the tension.

"I'm fairly sure there is. _Conspiracy Lovers_, maybe. No, _Lover's Conspiracy_."

"Was this the movie you tried to pitch after breaking into Universal Studios? Because that plot was messed up."

"It would have been a blockbuster. You're just jealous I thought of it first."

Sam cleared his throat and the two friends glanced up.

"I'm just saying," Shawn continued, "that informal meetings are a bit suspect. That's all."

"Doesn't smell right," Gus added.

Jules sprung from her chair, glaring daggers at the two friends. "We're trying to help you."

"O'Hara!" the chief warned, glancing sternly at her detective. Sheepishly, Jules returned to her seat.

Karen turned to Shawn. "This is an unusual situation. We could have you charged right now if you like, but given recent circumstances we all felt it was best if we could ascertain exactly what laws have been broken and how we can address the issues at hand. Since Mr. Dawson's office will ultimately be the one bringing charges, it makes sense to have him here."

"Let's just cut the crap," Henry cut in. "My son faked being psychic. That didn't stop him from solving the cases he was paid to solve. If the police department no longer—"

"I can defend myself, dad." Shawn swept his legs off the table. He glanced toward Gus. They talked silently for a second then Gus nodded. His expression said it all: _You can do this. I'm here for you. _

Sam straightened, pulling out a single envelope. "From what Detectives O'Hara and Lassiter have gathered, many of your cases were solved simply from strong observational and personal skills. Is that correct?"

"I have a photographic memory, yes. I also happen to be a very like-able person and I refuse to apologize for that. It's not against the law to be loved."

"They also suspect that much of your evidence was obtained through illegal means. Review of incidents and evidence from previous cases suggests that, while on the police payroll, you found material without a warrant for the police who then later arrived with the proper warrants to search and find what you'd already found."

Shawn sipped on his smoothie, his heart quickening. If he nodded, he'd definitely go to prison. If he didn't, he'd only be lying again.

"I'm going to make this simple for you, Mr. Spencer. At this point the State could bring a number of charges against you and the SBPD for events that have occurred over the last six years."

Gus shifted slightly, clearing his throat. "But if you did so, you'd be forced to reopen any case we'd been hired on. You'd have to look at each piece of evidence for proof that it was obtained by illegal means. It would get expensive quick."

"It would be," Sam confirmed. "Especially for the SBPD."

Shawn glanced around the room, the weight of Sam's words finally sinking in. It wasn't just him that was in trouble. It was Karen and Lassie and Jules and Buzz and anyone else Shawn had worked with.

He'd opened the floodgates.

Suddenly the closed doors and unofficial meetings made sense.

"You understand the severity of the situation?" Karen asked.

Shawn glanced at Lassie who was busy stabbing his pen into his pad of paper while looking up blankly. He turned toward Spencer then back to the DA.

There was a brief exchange of nods, after which Lassie shivered. He dug his pen into the pad of paper but said nothing.

"That's weird," Shawn whispered, leaning toward Gus and motioning toward Lassie.

Sam straightened as he drew a deep breath. He stared at the conference table, possibly looking into his own reflection, before saying, "You helped save my son, Mr. Spencer. You did save Chief Vick. Over the years, you've saved many lives and made Santa Barbara a better place. These are not events I'm willing to just overlook."

"Not to mention," Jules added, "If you hadn't warned us Lamberti's car was a ruse, we would have lost a number of officers to explosions Forray had set at each entrance."

Caressing the scar on his cheek, Sam continued, "Since you were never officially arrested, there's no record of your confession. Considering your recent service to the city and the Pandora's Box I'm not ready to open, the city will not be pressing charges at this time. I think it's time we set this whole mess to rest, don't you?"

He didn't miss the way Karen blinked, gazing curiously at the DA. He hadn't told her this was the plan. He hadn't told any of them.

Shawn hadn't realized he'd stopped breathing until his lungs drew in air one more. It took a moment for the words to process, and even then they didn't make any sense.

"Really?"

"Really," Sam answered.

Shawn turned toward Lassie because if there was anyone in the room unwilling to go with such a plan, it would be the detective.

Lassie's gaze fell to the floor. "No one is above the law."

Shawn's gut sank. A cover-up required all involved to play along. If Lassie refused, then they were back to step one.

Wasn't that the reason he'd chosen Lassie in the first place?

Lassie stood up, his long legs passing over the back of his chair. He twirled the pen in his hand.

"Carlton," Jules started, but Karen cut her off.

"What is right is not always black and white, Detective. You and I both know this is how it has to play out."

Lassie remained frozen for a moment before he looked up at Spencer. He looked as though he'd just eaten moldy leftovers, but there was a certain resignation, possibly even compassion, in his expression. He turned toward Karen. "It's your call, Chief."

Shawn wasn't exactly sure what to make of the meeting. While Iris's death would always haunt him, he realized prison would hold no solace. There was nothing to be gained by hiding in the system.

There was certainly nothing to be gained by implicating the entire SBPD.

So maybe everyone was right. It was time to just let things go.

As the meeting adjourned, Shawn remained seated. If jail wasn't his next stop, and Psych was over, where was he supposed to go now?

He recalled talking to his dad not too many nights ago.

_"__Grab your bike, fill it with gas, leave town and never look back. Go out there and force yourself to find your life again"_

Maybe his dad was right.

Six years was a good run. The longest run he'd had, really.

Maybe it was time to leave.

**Karen**

She felt numb.

Today marked **one** year since Iris's death, but the pain never truly subsided. It was a constant, always holding in the back of her mind. There were a thousand questions of 'what ifs'. There was also a constant longing to come home and hold her child. To see her grow up. To see her happy.

Yet somehow she'd made it through each day. Pain wasn't everything.

It certainly didn't control her.

A cool breeze rushed past the lilies in her hand. The graveyard was mostly deserted. She'd learned to come early to avoid crowds. It was easier when no one was watching.

Sometimes she came with her husband but sometimes she just needed to be alone.

From her periphery, she noticed a lone figure approach. He walked slowly, watching her carefully. He stopped short, digging his hands deep into his pockets.

"Mr. Spencer. It's been a while."

He shuffled nervously. "I should go."

"It's okay. I could use the company."

They each observed a moment of silence before Karen did a quick sign of the cross and stepped away from Iris's grave. Spencer stood back but she waved for him to follow.

He still seemed older, maybe more so now that a few gray hairs had made an appearance. There was also no erasing how those two months had changed him, but there was something lighter about him again.

Though the scenery subdued his smile, and though he wasn't joking, she could see that he was finally healing. If eyes were a window to the soul, his revealed a certain happiness that hadn't been there when he'd left.

She knew her own expression had softened. A year hadn't lessened the blow but she'd kept going and that was something

"Did you find yourself?" she asked, though she could already see the truth within him.

"Wherever I go, there I am. I'm not sure I had far to look." He grinned the familiar Spencer grin that had exasperated her so many times before but had often made her smile.

They walked the next few steps in silence until Karen reached her car. She'd been rubbing her side without realizing it, though the physical pain was absent.

"I don't blame you." It was amazing how much courage it took to say that though she'd already said the same eight months ago. Only now it was different. Now maybe he'd listen. "I never did."

He didn't answer her directly, just mumbled something about needing a pineapple (not Mango) smoothie, but she'd seen his expression relax.

They parted ways. She'd forgotten to ask about his plans, whether or not he planned to stay or where he needed to go. Would she see him again? There was a certain childlike spark Spencer brought to the station and she'd come to miss it over the last year.

She drove to breakfast next. It took a while to down her eggs and toast. Food just wasn't interesting on a day like today.

Her final stop was the station. Lassiter and O'Hara had tried to convince her to take the day off, but she'd learned long ago that working made things easier.

She wasn't surprised when she saw the pineapple on her desk. Glancing out her window she saw there were three other pineapples. Lassiter lifted his with mocked annoyance before finally placing his gently in his drawer. She didn't miss his smile.

O'Hara took one look at the pineapple and raced outside as though expecting to still catch him.

There was something white hidden within the leaves. She drew it out slowly, noting the pineapple embossed on the front.

_Shawn and Gus's Detective Agency_

_When you need a miracle, you need us.  
_

Hastily scribbled on the back were a series of a numbers. An investigator's license number, Karen realized.

She laughed silently to herself. There was something strange about Spencer playing by the rules, but a lot had changed. It was as her mom told her, "The past is always present but the present is always new."

**Gus**

He watched as the workers painted the new logo on the window. It wasn't the beachfront property Psych had enjoyed for many years, but this wasn't Psych. Shawn had made that much clear.

This was a partnership. This was an honest business.

No more lies.

No more cover-ups.

Of course he'd also promised it would be _Gus and Shawn's Detective Agency_, but somehow that wasn't on the business cards. It figured.

"You sure about this?" he asked, as he slapped Shawn's hand away from his fries.

"Never surer. Just remember, you do the paperwork and the money subsidizing, and I'll provide the awesome sleuthing."

"That's not how it works. I—"

"Details, details. The important part is that I'm back and we're doing this. Now admit it: This feels right."

Gus thought back to the day he'd removed the Psych logo from their office window. Back then all he'd wanted was a chance to start again.

While this wasn't Psych, this was an opportunity.

Gus looked at the new office then back at his best friend. They'd been through so much together, and maybe that was how it should be. Already he could feel his adrenaline pumping in anticipation of the next adventure.

**The End**

* * *

*Refers to my short story "While Were Waiting" posted on psychfic.

Thanks again for reading and for your patience! I do hope you enjoyed this.


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